


A Summer in Altissia

by littlemiss_m



Series: A Lifetime on Eos [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (it'll happen later in the series), Alternate Universe - No Prophecy (Final Fantasy XV), Developing Friendships, Gen, Good Dad Regis, Light Angst, Loneliness, also prompto's parents were assholes but in this fandom that's nothing new, altissian prompto, but there are some references to cor being in a serious accident that almost killed him, it's really hot in altissia and noctis is Suffering, lotsa food, low-key depressed noctis, neither prompto nor noctis want to make friends but if y'all think that's gonna stop them, pre-promptis, prompto tho has ptsd and anxiety, religious prompto, the fic is more melancholy than angsty, weskham and cor are taking care of prompto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2020-07-23 13:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20008810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: A fourteen-year-old Noctis travels to Altissia for a summer vacation masquerading as a political trip. Once there, he meets with Prompto, a stranger who lives at Maagho and who is a novice at one of the numerous temples worshipping Leviathan. One boy too used to being unapproachable, the other too used to being left behind, neither is interested in befriending the other -- too bad no-one cares for their opinions on the matter.





	1. Arrivals

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, sorry for the disappearing act! I haven't written much this summer but I'm not yet ready to give up on this fandom, so here's the start to a new fic -- an entire series, actually. I have approximately half of the fic written and while I can't promise I'll be able to finish the rest, I'll be fighting tooth and nail to do so.
> 
> To anyone who has commented on my previous fics and whose comments I haven't yet replied to, I'll try to get to them as soon as I can! To everyone else, I hope you'll enjoy the fic <3
> 
> Updates on Sundays if all goes well! :)

The journey to Galdin Quay is not that long, but the boat ride from there to Altissia will last for hours and so they leave as dusk begins to fall, in the hopes that they will reach Accordo in time for the formal luncheon hosted by President Claustra to welcome them. Noctis absorbs the details of the next few days with a quiet lack of interest and then spends the rest of the car ride napping.

Thirty-one days in Altissia, that's what he's been promised. Thirty-one days of sunshine surrounded by the crash of the sea, and though Noctis knows better than to hope for utter freedom, he still feels his heart jump as he thinks of the trip ahead. It's not a vacation, not exactly; his father's schedule is full of work day after day, and his own isn't much emptier. But it's something, a chance to get away from Insomnia, the Citadel, the oppressive normalcy of their lives, and even through the soul-numbing melancholy dripping in his veins, Noctis feels little but excitement. He can hardly wait.

They travel in an envoy of six cars, guards at the front and back; some are already waiting in Galdin Quay, and yet another group should have arrived in Altissia by now to clear their lodgings. An hour or two into the ride, Noctis startles awake and sits up, looking around blearily; the right side of his face is wet with drool and there's a similar damp patch on his father's knee. ”'R we there?” he mumbles, sleepy in the steady hum of the car engine. Regis laughs and pats his knee.

”Not yet,” he says. Noctis looks at the front, at the nameless, faceless Glaive driving and then at Clarus, who stares out of the car, lost in thought. Ignis and Gladio are traveling in the car behind them, along with Iris, and the two others are filled with politicians and other personnel.

”'Kay,” Noctis says, and leans down to rest his head on Regis' knee once more. He feels young, safe, and there's no-one here to see him kip who isn't already privy to his sleeping habits. The press would have a field day, he knows, but they're on the road in a car with tinted windows and bullet-proof doors, him and his dad both together for once, and it's all too good for him to care.

Thirty-one days of Altissia, sea breezes and fishing and delicious foods; it really isn't such a bad way to spend the summer holidays, Noctis muses idly, watching the darkening sky through the gap between the two front seats. He sees the moon and thinks of Luna, wishing she could arrange her annual visit to overlap with theirs, but knows his wants futile – she won't be traveling to Altissia until long after they've returned home. 

Even with his father's hand carding through his hair, he feels lonely all of sudden. He has Ignis, Gladio, Iris all coming with him, and in Altissia he'll finally get to meet Claustra's twin children, Gladio and Iris' cousins, who sound like fun people but are only nine years old all the same. Noctis thinks of all the other kids in his class, how they were nothing but smiles and laughter as they all waited for the last bell of the school year. They might not all be visiting Altissia this summer – though most of them certainly could afford to – but they still have something planned out, days at the beach or hanging out in the parks, eating ice cream and just lazing around for days on end. 

His jealously is the last thing Noctis thinks of before falling asleep.

* * *

By the time they arrive in Galdin Quay, the night has cooled down around them and Noctis has to put on a thin sweater to chase the chill away. While he waits for the permission to board the royal vessel, he stands at the end of a pier staring at the black sea before him, feels the wind rush against his face and breathes the clear scent of salt in the air. He's awake, no longer sleepy at all, and once they're cleared to board the ship, he finds he'd rather sit on the deck than hole up in the cabin. Gladio passes a sleeping Iris to Clarus and joins him at the front.

His father's favorite boat isn't that large so it's just the family traveling on it, the Amicitias and Ignis and Noctis with his father. There are two multi-tasking Crownsguards aboard to steer the ship but the others split between two other boats, the first of which takes off before them and the second following in the trail of foamy sea water created by the first two boats. Gladio's arm presses into his shoulder but Noctis doesn't mind it, not on a cool night like this when everything already feels so liminal and dream-like.

”You excited?” Gladio murmurs to him soon after the boat begins its slow glide out of the harbor. Noctis doesn't really know the answer so he shrugs and turns his head to the side.

”Guess so,” he says eventually. ”Lots of time for fishing. That sounds good.”

His schedule has already been arranged for all thirty-one days of their stay. He's not expected to give any speeches or sit through any political discussions – not yet, not when he's only fourteen years old and still learning – but there are ceremonies and luncheons and charity events, and those take up a considerable amount of his time. Still, there are hours of nothing scattered here and there, from short naps to entire days of freedom, and yeah, it's a lot more than Noctis could have asked for. He understands without being told that this will be one of his last chances to be a kid, that within a year he will have turned fifteen years old, and that fifteen is almost sixteen and that sixteen is so close to adulthood he'll no longer get the chance to simply be, but – his father must have fought the Council for this journey, and so Noctis is determined to at least try to make the best of it.

”What about you?” he asks after a while, when Gladio makes no move to continue the discussion. The boat is already clearing the harbor and begins picking up speed, the bow rocking up and down as it cuts through rolling night-time waves. ”Looking forward to seeing your aunt and the kids?”

Gladio's expression softens and he hums, nodding slowly. When Clarus married the love of his life, her twin sister Camelia Claustra was a politician's aide; now, some twenty years later, she's the President of Accordo. As young as he'd been at the time, Noctis can still remember the heated discussions during her run, when people were worried she'd sell her country to Lucis, or that choosing a person so obviously affiliated with the Crown of Lucis would anger other world leaders. Things ended up fine, though, if the council reports Ignis abbreviates for him are to be believed. The relationship between Lucis and Accordo is better than ever, and together, the governments of the two countries have worked hard to include the three other countries in their happy little club.

”It's nice,” Gladio says. ”Been a while since we got to see her. Dad's flipping out already, 'cause he knows Aunt Cam's not gonna play nice.”

Noctis laughs through the hollow feeling in his chest. He recalls Gladio carrying Iris out of the car, bundled in a massive Crownsguard jacket, and wonders what it would be like to have more family than just his dad. He doesn't remember his mom and she didn't have any close relatives either, everyone dead or estranged, so other than two distant cousins he has never met and likely never will, Noctis is once again alone. Gladio's lost his mom, too, but he has a sister and cousins and dozens of friends, some closer than others; Noctis, on the other hand, can't even make the first friend. There's a circle of nothingness around him, a shadow none dare cross with honest intentions, and he can't get out on his own either.

”'S there something you wanna do once we get there? Like some place you'd want to visit or something?” Noctis asks, ignoring the growing hole where his heart is supposed to be.

Gladio takes a moment to answer. ”Not really,” he says, shrugging. ”I mean, other than seeing Cor and Weskham... nothing that wouldn't already be in your schedule.”

Noctis nods. ”Dad said him and Clarus are gonna visit them, well – I guess it'd already be tomorrow morning?” He doesn't know what time it is, exactly, but he's fairly sure they're past midnight already.

”Tomorrow, yeah,” Gladio sighs. He sits up and slaps his thighs. ”Probably time we got to bed, though. It's gonna be a long day.”

There's not much Noctis can say to that, so he follows Gladio's example and begins dragging his feet towards the cabin. They're so far into the ocean that there are no lights anywhere, only the string of three boats gliding across the water in a blackness barely illuminated by the bright lights clipped into each boat. Noctis casts one last look at the scenery, the magical darkness and the stars so sharp they resemble diamonds, but the moment cannot stretch forever and soon he's in the cabin searching for a bed to sleep on.

* * *

In the morning, they let him sleep in. He's not in any hurry, not yet, and the previous night would've been a long one even without him and Gladio staying up so late. When Noctis feels a hand shaking his shoulder, he rolls over with a groan and open his crusty eyes, expecting Ignis but finding his father instead.

”Morning, son,” Regis murmurs, smilind down at him. ”It's about time you started thinking about getting up.”

”Ugh,” Noctis grumbles, rubbing his eyes. ”What time is it?”

”Half past eight,” his father answers. ”Ignis says breakfast will be ready soon, so I'd assume you have roughly fifteen minutes before he starts to fret about the food spoiling.”

There's a twinkle in Regis' eyes when he speaks, a silent joke that has Noctis huffing a sleepy laugh. He's so tired his head aches with the remnants of sleep but he sits up anyways, kicking his feet over the edge after his father scoots further down the bed to give him the space. ”Are we on schedule?” he asks, yawning, and Regis nods.

”We'll arrive after noon as planned,” he confirms, standing up. Then, with a grin, he adds: ”Try not to fall asleep, son.”

Noctis throws a pillow at him but it only smacks against the door closing after Regis, and then he has no choice but to pick it up himself and that means getting out of bed. Groaning and grumbling to himself, Noctis pads over to the tiny ensuite to get ready for the day. He'll have to change to something more formal before they arrive in Altissia so he doesn't worry about clothes, throws on the same jeans and the same t-shirt he wore the previous night, and goes out in search of the others.

With sunlight streaming down on them, the sea looks almost unrecognizable. Noctis pauses at the cabin door, unable to help the smile spreading over his face, and just stares at the endless blue and the cloudless sky. The boat throws droplets of water into the air and when Noctis walks over to the others, following the metal rails until the deck widens once again, he gets hit with a faceful of salty mist he doesn't mind in the slightest.

”Good morning, Noctis,” Ignis greets him, pulling out a chair. Noctis greets him and sits down while admiring the spread of various breakfast items on the table.

”Looks good, Specs,” he says, then grins when he sees the pleased smile on Ignis' face. Next to him, Gladio is already busy chomping down his daily bowl of oatmeal; Noctis grimaces and after a moment of thinking, reaches for the large frittata dish. It's got vegetables in it but he can also spot pieces of pink salmon poking through the egg mixture, a sure sign that this is one of the rare combinations of veg and meat that he and Ignis have found suitable to his taste.

”We got a message from Altissia a moment ago, looks like everything's okay on that end,” Clarus mentions after an extended silence. ”Apparently Camelia hasn't tried bugging our rooms or anything.”

Regis laughs. ”Sorry to say this, old friend, but there's little chance this trip will be cancelled or even cut short,” he says, rousing a chorus of laughter from the others. They all know how badly Clarus and Camelia get along, even Noctis and Ignis, who have never witnessed the two together.

Clarus sighs, heavy and exaggerated. ”Shame,” he sighs. Next to him, Iris coos and and wraps around his side.

”Aww, c'mon daddy, she's really nice!” she says, smiling brightly in her excitement. ”She said she's gonna take us to the aquarium!”

Noctis glances at Ignis, who nods. ”She's referring to the competition,” he confirms. During the very first briefings on the trip ahead, he'd been informed it was customary for the President's Office to organize a competition for all first grade students in Accordo every spring, and then take the winning class out on a field trip with all expenses paid; this year, the theme for the competition had been somehow related to marine biology, cue the aquarium. Of all the things in his schedule, the field trip is what interests Noctis the most.

”They won't be needing any tour guides, eh,” Gladio says, smirking at Noctis. ”Just throw Noct at the kids and have him point out all the fish to them.”

”Oh, shut up,” Noctis grouses. Somehow, he manages to resist the urge to throw an apple at Gladio's head, though the laughter booming around him does little to help his flustered mood.

* * *

The boats stay on schedule and soon enough it's time to get dressed for good. Noctis doesn't resist Ignis fretting over his hair or the imaginary wrinkles in his black suit, instead throwing the jacket over his shoulder in a desperate attempt to chase the sweltering heat away; already at sea, it's promising a hot day, and he knows the port city will only be worse. The air conditioning inside the cabin feels hardly sufficient at all, and already, Noctis is dreading their arrival.

The sound of Iris shouting something catches Noctis' attention and he looks up in the direction of her voice even if he can't see her through the cabin ceiling. Next to him, Ignis shrugs, a soft smile spreading on his face.

”Sounds like we're getting there,” he comments, and Noctis grins at him. ”Shall we go see?”

They move upstairs and out to the deck, where an excited Iris immediately begins calling them over. As they make their way towards the bow, Noctis spots the black shape in the horizon, still little else but a vague shift where the sky meets the ocean. Little by little, the island grows larger, as do the numerous sailboats dotting the scenery.

”Looks like a welcoming committee,” Gladio murmurs, looking around with a small frown. ”Should we get back inside?”

Stomach sinking in disappointment, Noctis is already mentally preparing himself for another hour or two locked in the cabin when Clarus speaks up. ”No, I don't think that's necessary... Look, some of those boats are Accordian Marines – they're creating a path for us to travel through.”

He points at one of the boats closest to them and Noctis turns to follow his finger. Sure enough, the boat boasts massive letters both on the sails and the hull, declaring it part of the Accordian Marine Forces; Noctis lets out a small sigh of relief at the sight. He's been told to expect very little trouble during their stay in Altissia but there's always that little voice nagging at the back of his head, telling him to worry and be careful. It sounds a lot like Ignis, sometimes, but also like Gladio and his father and the doctors who look at his back with frowns he pretends to not notice.

”Still, it is really pretty out here...” Clarus sighs. He stands up straight, hands braced on his hips, and smiles at the wind brushing past his head; when Noctis looks at him, he feels like he can understand what Clarus is currently feeling.

”Hey, hey, we should take a picture! Before we arrive!” Iris chirps suddenly, bouncing over to cling to her father's arm. Noctis steps aside with a wide grin and tries to pat his hair into something not resembling a bird's nest, but the battle against the soft winds is one he cannot win and so, with a humored sigh, he leans against the rails and lets the matter drop.

They call the second Crownsguard – the one not steering the boat – out to the deck and hand Clarus' old digital camera to him. It doesn't take much to arrange themselves into a photograph; they're all standing at the bow already, so all they need to do is turn around and leave Altissia behind their backs, where it remains a far-away monument to another land. Just as the camera flashes against their faces, Noctis feels his father's hand on his shoulder and looks up, smiling at the wind and the sea and the endless blue all around them.


	2. Departures

Prompto begins his morning as he always does: by tiptoeing out of Maagho, careful to not wake anyone up. Weskham will be up before his return but Cor's mornings always start out slow and painful, and he doesn't want to make them any worse by causing a ruckus on his way out. He slips out through a flimsy door on the otherwise sturdy storm shutters and tries to close it as quietly as he can, but as always, it refuses to lock unless slammed shut quick. In the silent morning, the sound is like a gunshot and like every day before, Prompto has to tell himself that neither Weskham nor Cor have ever complained about it, not even when he asked if he should wait until they wake up.

It's still early enough that the sun is only beginning to rise to the sky, and in the darkness of the morning, the canals look almost black. There is very little wind at this hour but the air is cool all the same, and Prompto smiles when he finishes his warm-up stretches and kicks off. Though there are nervous butterflies fluttering about his stomach, the morning is a good one and he's determined to enjoy it.

He runs along his usual route, only to notice that the streets are already changing in anticipation of the Lucian Crown visiting: there are police officers and secret service people here and there, likely doing last-minute checks to ensure that everything goes well. Prompto wonders if someone's going to show up at Maagho as well, or if Cor and Weskham are enough to guarantee its safety. A nervous laugh bubbles out of his throat, disturbing his breathing pattern; he knows there's no way for him to avoid meeting the visitors if they show up at the restaurant.

It's not until Prompto turns into a blocked road that he realizes his favorite path overlaps with the route the royals are going to take when they move from the harbor to the Presidential Manor. ”Sorry, kid, road's closed,” a police officer calls at him, stepping forward to stand in front of the blockade. ”Unless you live here, you need to take another route.”

Nodding his head, Prompto stops. ”Yeah, sorry,” he pants, leaning against his knees for a moment before standing up to look around. ”Um, I usually turn right after the next bridge and then double back before the university campus, do you know if–”

”Yeah, the entire area is closed off,” the officer cuts in. ”Better to just keep to the side streets.”

”Oh, okay, thanks,” Prompto gasps, flashing the officer a smile. ”Have a good day!”

As he runs off, he hears the officer return his greeting. It does little to help his quickly souring mood; irritation is starting to replace his previous nervousness, and the more he thinks about it, the more frustrated he grows. Getting out of bed, he was already more anxious than usual, and the blockade really threw him off his game. His usually relaxing morning run is now making him feel worse and so Prompto doesn't even bother trying to come up with an alternative route. He jogs back home, not stopping at the designated swimming area where he normally ends his runs, and steps back into Maagho just as Weskham is entering the restauraunt through the door leading upstairs to the private living quarters.

”Morning, kid,” Weskham says, clearly alarmed. ”Is something–”

”Morning,” Prompto cuts in, not looking up from his feet. ”I'm just gonna go shower now.”

Weskham lets him go and though Prompto feels instantly bad over his manners, he doesn't return downstairs until he knows breakfast is ready.

* * *

It's not often Prompto wanders out of the city and into the small patch of grass-covered hills northwest of Altissia, but whenever he does, he always ends up enjoying himself. He likes the feeling of grass under his bare feet, slipping between his toes and tickling his skin; it's a sensation he's sure he'll never tire from. The sun feels brighter here, too, and though he knows it's not true, the lack of stuffy buildings crowding into each other makes the air itself taste cleaner. He can still hear the familiar sounds of seagulls cawing and waves crashing in, but here they are accompanied by the sounds of local fishermen talking to each other in loud voices that wash over the green shoreline.

Prompto loves this place, yet he's not sure if he'll ever want to return after today.

He finds Aranea in the small sailboat she's bought for herself. Biggs is nowhere to be seen but a loudly meowing Wedge struts up to him as soon as he hoists himself off the pier and onto the boat, and Prompto doesn't waste any time in picking him up. Wedge's fur is long and soft as he cards his fingers through it, but it doesn't give him the usual sense of happiness.

”I was wondering if you'd ever show up,” Aranea greets him, walking out of the cabin. ”Thought you might've gone to see that king instead.”

Prompto can already feel his lips begin to wobble. ”You know I wouldn't do that,” he murmurs, holding Wedge tight against his chest.

Aranea hums but her attention is already on the sails. ”Yeah, why bother seeing them from the crowds when they're gonna show up at your door anyways,” she says, pulling on ropes and testing knots. Prompto feels his ribs curling inwards and sucks in his lips.

She knows how anxious he is over the visit. Prompto wants to get mad, wants to yell at her, wants to ask for some compassion for once – but he does none of it because he doesn't her leaving after a fight. ”You sure you have everything?” he asks instead, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as an unexpectedly large wave rocks the roat against the pier. ”Food, water, medicine? A working radio? Flares? Oh and–”

”I actually do know what I'm doing, Shortcake,” Aranea cuts in. She finally turns to face him properly and the sight of her actually smiling at him is enough to clog his throat. ”Well, all's good to go.”

It takes him a moment to realize that this time, ”all's good to go” means exactly that: she's ready. Her preparations are done, the little red sailboat is ready, and all that's holding her back is Prompto himself.

Swallowing, he sets Wedge down on the floor. ”Bye bye, Wedgy,” he murmurs, kissing his fingertips before pressing them against a fluffy forehead. ”Be good for me, okay? And take care of Nea.”

He still can't see Biggs anywhere. Prompto's eyes are already stinging with tears when he turns to look at Aranea once more, and she doesn't resist when he steps up to lay his palms on her shoulders. It's a bit awkward, with her still being inches taller than he is, and he doesn't know where to look when the choice is her eyes or her breasts, so he tries to stare at her neck instead, at the silver hair shifting in the wind, the sliver of blue sky between her braids.

”Swift tides, Sister,” he says, glancing upwards at her eyes. She's smiling in a way she only ever does at the temple. ”May – may you find the truth that you're looking for and come back home safe.”

”Thank you, Brother,” Aranea says. She makes to step backwards out of his grasp but for once he's faster, throwing his arms around her body. She startled but doesn't try to escape the embrace, only pulling her arms free so she can twine them around his back. ”Hey, no crying, okay? I'm gonna be back in January, that's a promise.”

Prompto can't stop the tears from falling any longer. Sniffling, he lets go of her and steps back, tries to wipe at his face with the bare skin of his wrists. ”Yeah, sorry,” he gasps. ”I'm just worried. You're such a dumbass, you're probably gonna get in a fight with a whale or something!”

Aranea laughs. ”Now that's an idea,” she muses, smirking. ”It'd be a great story to tell once I come back, huh? But, Shortcake, I gotta get going first...”

It's time. ”Yeah, yeah, I know,” Prompto mumbles, caught between crying and trying to smile. ”Biggs is here somewhere, right? You didn't forget him?”

”He's sulking in the cabin,” Aranea responds. She's leaning against the main sail now, one hand twined into a thick rope. She smiles when she sees Prompto looking. ”Bye, kid.”

Prompto knows that no matter how hard he tries, he can't make the moment last forever so he climbs out of the sailboat and back onto the wooden pier. Aranea unties the last ropes holding her boat still and then she's off, slowly gliding away from the pier until the sails catch the wind and billow out.

”Take care of Pops!” are her last words. The further away the sailboat moves, the faster it becomes, until it's cutting through the waves like it was sliding across slippery ice. Prompto follows her as far as the pier stretches but eventually he has to stop.

He doesn't feel like taking photographs but it's what he does anyways. Prompto pulls his old camera out of the clear plastic purse slung across his chest and flicks it on without a glance. Aranea is still close enough to see him raise the device over his face and she waves back at him, a massive smile splitting her face as the glittering seawater casts a halo around her.

Prompto knows without looking it's one of his best pictures so far but he doesn't pause to examine it, instead snapping more and more photos until Aranea and her sailboat are but a red speck in the distance. Slowly, Prompto shuts down the camera and tucks it back into his bag, but instead of leaving, he sits down.

The tallest waves brush against the bottoms of his feet but Prompto doesn't mind it. The water kissing his skin is slow and rhytmic, almost enough to distract him from the hurt in his chest or the tears rolling down his reddening face. Though he cries as silently as he can, he doesn't notice anyone approach until he hears someone clear their throat behind him.

”Going on a pilgrimage, was she?” someone asks, and Prompto looks up to see one of the fishermen standing next to him. The man is older, slightly gray around the temples, and smells like raw fish.

Prompto nods, trying to wipe his face clean once again. ”Yeah,” he sniffles. ”She wants to sail around the world.”

The man hums and crosses his arms. ”Well, she's gonna be back, right? Leaving a bit early, but they all come back in January all the same.”

Prompto knows it but the knowledge does nothing to ease his anxiety. A pilgrimage is not over until the person returns to the temple they started from, but there's no telling what kinds of hardships Aranea may face during her journey. The ocean is vast, after all, full of monstrous animals and dangerous currents. She'll be in Galahd during the worst storm season and in Tenebrae when the sea shores begin to freeze over, and though Prompto knows she intends to come back, he doesn't have it in himself to hold the same faith she does.

* * *

Across the city in Maagho, Weskham is doing inventory of the alcohol bottles behind the counter while keeping one eye on the TV screen where a local news reporter is busy explaining to her audience the details of what to expect from the next month. Behind her, Regis and his entourage can be seen walking up the staircase leading to the Presidential Manor, Claustra holding onto his arm in a rare show of sympathy. Despite the uneven gait, Regis looks good in Weskham's eyes, a relief like no other – though he has to admit that seeing Regis' silver hair next to Clarus' bald head had been a shock. It's two years since their previous meeting, and while those twenty-four months were not a long time by any shot, the simple amount of change that has happened during the period... Weskham can only shake his head.

They're growing old.

”Your old mate, wasn't he?” someone asks, shaking Weskham out of his throughts. Putting on his usual customer service face, he turns to face one of his oldest regulars, a retired man who – like clockwork – comes by two or three times a week for a bowl of the daily special and a glass of Weskham's recommendation.

”Once upon a time, yes,” Weskham replies, shaking his head to dispand the memory of war and brotherhood clouding his thoughts. He casts a glance around the restaurant, satisfied to see that all seated customers have at least their drinks before them, if not their meals. It's the worst lunch rush but the three servers weaving past crowded tables look like they're all in control of the situation. ”How's the food today, friend?”

The man laughs and clacks his drink against the countertop. ”Same as always, same as always,” he grins easily. ”Still not as good as that one paella but you know that already, eh?”

Weskham grins back, easily losing himself in the camaderie. ”That I do,” he laughs. ”If the vendors keep to their promises, you might be getting lucky next week.”

”I'll drink to that,” the man replies, still smiling wide and careless. He raises his glass before taking a sip. ”Oh, there's your other royal buddy comin' through.”

Weskham looks over just in time to see Cor, back from his daily walk, approach the sidewalk next to the open canals. He's using his walker today, though his movements don't seem any worse than usual, and Weskham can't figure out if he truly needs the mobility aid or if he's trying to save his strenght in anticipation of Regis and Clarus' upcoming visits. Either option is enough to cast a dark cloud over the bustling restraurant, but over the past two years, Weskham has grown adapted to the constant worry.

Cor makes his way up to the counter and drops a stack of letters on it. ”Here's the mail,” he grunts. ”Did Prompto return yet?”

Slipping the letters under the register, Weskham shakes his head. ”Not yet,” he says. ”Hungry?”

Cor shrugs. ”Could eat,” he responds easily enough, never a man to turn down food. He leans heavily on the walker and tips his head towards the kitchens. ”The back still empty?”

”Yeah, go on through, I'll be there in a moment,” Weskham says with a nod. He watches Cor turn towards the back of the building and the small, covered porch used almost entirely by the staff. When Cor is gone, he says his goodbyes to the small circle of customers sitting at the counter, and then slips into the kitchen to collect a tray full of food before following Cor outside.

Though the porch is small, it still holds enough space for a family or two; the previous owners had used it as an outdoors dining area and Weskham has kept to their tradition, though his staff also prefer to spend their breaks here in the shadow of the vine-covered ceiling beams. Cor sits in the far corner where white wood separates the porch from the blue canal, and though he looks relaxed under the softened winds, Weskham still worries. For two years he has watched Cor grow and recover, and still he worries.

”Here comes the lunch,” Weskham grins, announcing his presence while pushing the negative thoughts away once more. Cor turns to him and swipes a hand across the table, sweeping away a few small flower petals and whatever little crumbs have collected there since the previous day.

”Smells good,” Cor comments. He waits until Weskham has lowered the tray onto the table before using his stronger hand to pick up the glasses and utensils. Huffing out a quiet laugh, Weskham pulls out a chair and sits down on it.

”You say that every day,” he grins, ladling soup into two bowls. ”Spicy seafood soup with some good, crusty bread.”

Cor returns his grin with a roll of his eyes. ”Same shit every day, and still it tastes better than anything I've ever eaten,” he jokes. After Weskham is done portioning the soup, Cor slides his bowl closer to the edge of the table and waits for Weskham to fill their glasses. ”Did you see the news? Poor Clarus has gone all bald already.”

Nodding, Weskham dips his spoon into the rich, bright orange broth. ”And Reggie's silver as the moon,” he huffs. ”The kids are growing up fine, though. Gladiolus and Iris are taking after their mother, thank the Six.”

Cor cackles around his spoon, face flushed red as he struggles to swallow through his laughter. ”Small blessings, I guess,” he chuckles before falling silent for a moment. ”Did Prompto say anything about when he'd be back?”

There is nothing for Weskham to do but shake his head. ”No, and there's no telling, not today,” he sighs, stirring a spoon through his soup. ”With Aranea gone... He's not going to be fine till she returns.”

Cor's answer, a quiet little 'yeah' is so muted it almost disappears under the distant crash of water. Weskham looks past him at the canal, the slowly flowing blue waters leading towards the ocean. The topmost floor where Weskham's own bedroom and study wait for his return is tall enough to catch the smallest glimpse of the open waters between two neighboring buildings, but here by the water level, all they have is the canal and the red bricks of the bakery next door.

”Did you tell him why Reggie and Clarus are coming to see you?” Weskham asks quietly. Waiting, he stirs a spoon through the broth and catches a piece of cod, sighing when the long silence tells him all he needs to know. ”Cor...”

”I know, I know,” Cor cuts in, sighing. He sips at his water before continuing and Weskham takes catalogue of the tremors of his hand, compares them to the previous day, the previous weeks. ”It's just... I'm pretty sure I've already made my decision and I don't want to worry him when he's already freaking out over Aranea leaving.”

Weskham shakes his head. ”I do hope you know what you're doing,” he exhales, tilting his head back to stare at the flowers. ”That boor boy can't handle any more disappointments.”

”I know,” Cor repeats, his face downturned. ”That's exactly why I don't want to hurt him.”

Weskham hums but says nothing else. Gazing at the canal, he thinks of the upcoming month and the rare chance to meet old friends, people torn apart by life. Cid wouldn't be there, of course, too busy holding up his garage in Hammerhead, but with Regis and Clarus both in Altissia for such a long time... Weskham smiles through his sigh and blows at another steaming spoonful of broth. Two years is not a long time, not to men as old as they have grown, but still... He's going to enjoy having his friends in one place for the first time in years.

* * *

When Prompto returns to Maagho later that day, he finds Weskham in the dining floor receiving compliments from an overjoyed customer and slips right past him. Prompto feels disgusting, sweaty from walking to the northwest shore and back, his face covered in old salt from his tears. Some of the customers glance at him when he walks past them towards the two galley doors, one of which leads into the kitchen and the second to the living quarters, but the people sitting around the bar are all regulars and let him go without a word.

Once upstairs, the noise of the restaurant disappears. Prompto stops at the landing to listen; the door to Cor's room is open and he can hear the soft thrum of guitar strings through an old, raspy radio. For a moment, Prompto hesitates, seriously considering throwing himself down on the floor in Cor's room and crying his heart out once more, but in the end he decides otherwise.

”She'll be back,” he mouths to himself. ”She has to, or the pilgrimage will be all for nothing. She'll come home when she's done and that's it.”

Sitting down on his bed with his camera in his hands, he doesn't have the courage to turn it on. He already watched her leave once; no matter how great the pictures might be, he can't bear the thought of repeating her departure.

He knows she'll be back, but knowledge alone is not enough to abate his anxiety over her departure.


	3. Introductions I

The morning is dark and far cooler than the evening had been, and when Regis cracks open the balcony doors, he's met with a breeze that threatens to displace the paperwork already littering a nearby table. The sun is a thin, orange glimmer in the far, far horizon, barely even rising yet, and Regis groans when he goes through the day's schedule in his mind. It was hell before he made the decision to fit Weskham and Cor into the morning hours, but giving up two or three hours of sleep doesn't even compare to meeting with old friends, not when he so rarely has to time for it.

”Ready to go?” Clarus asks, stepping into the room in casual clothes. Regis nods, turning around, and makes for the door.

”I wish we had more time, so we could bring the boys with us,” he sighs in the hallway. ”I know we'll have more chances later on, but...”

”Yeah,” Clarus agrees. He's silent as they walk through the lobby, where two Crownsguards are standing guard. ”Do you think he'll agree?”

It's a question Regis has asked himself many a time, and also one he has no answer for. ”He's as far along in his recovery as he'll ever be,” he says instead, repeating words they have both heard before.

”Doesn't mean anything, though,” Clarus comments with a shrug. He's bothered by this whole business, Regis knows; he can see it in the faked nonchalance and the slightest frown on thinning lips.

The streets are almost empty, the early morning birds more interested in getting to work or running down on rounded cobblestones to pay much attention to a foreign king and his most loyal servant. In the cool, silent calm of the streets, Regis allows himself to be lost in thought. It's two years since he's last seen Cor, almost four since Weskham's latest visit to Insomnia, and he has no idea what to expect. Two years ago, Cor was a scarred, trembling mess of terrible pain and barely functioning limbs. That was after a full year in a hospital, and the months they waited – praying, pleading, begging – had been some of the most harrowing times in Regis' life. Only the aftermath of Noctis' accident compared to how terrified he'd been, and back then, they'd had hope.

The doctors who saw Cor immediately after the attack called his death more times than Regis dare remember, yet his friend didn't give up when the hospital staff did. The event that proved Cor's mortality simultaneously reminded the world of his old moniker, and despite odds so low they might just as well have been negative, the Immortal lived on. Stubborn as a mule, Cor proved his doctors wrong first by living, then by breathing, speaking, standing, _walking_ , absolutely refusing to give up no matter how hard things were. When Regis and Clarus had accompanied Cor to Altissia and Weskham's care, he'd still needed a nurse to help him with personal hygiene and some other things. Now, Cor is independent and capable of taking care of himself without assistance – but as advanced as his recovery is, Regis knows it might not be enough.

He came to Altissia to offer Cor a position in military intelligence or even an advisor's seat in the military council, but he also brought with him the paperwork needed to retire Cor. That is the point of these meetings: to decide whether Cor will be returning to Insomnia and if yes, in what capacity.

Regis isn't ready to say goodbye.

”Almost there,” Clarus murmurs by his side. Regis nods, casting a glance at the surroundings; his memories of the area surrounding Maagho are hazy at best, and the barely rising sun casts strange shadows everywhere, but underneath all the unfamiliarity he sees things he recognizes. The widening canal, almost black in the morning light; a familiar street sign, the decorated windows of an old bakery, and finally, the letter M barely visible between the green vines growing everywhere in the neighborhood.

Most of the wooden storm shutters that outline the open dining area are still pulled shut after the night, but the section cutting across the stone paving has been left open. Inside the restaurant, the lights are all brightly lit, and Regis smiles when he steps into the beacon of light pouring into the dark street they are standing on.

”Knock knock,” he announces their arrival, walking inside without invitation. Habit has him casting a glance around the room, easily spotting the back of Cor's head where the man is sitting in one of the booths. A black, plastic walker sits by his side, prompting a worried look between Regis and Clarus.

Cor turns his head and after the split second it takes him to recognize the guests, he grins wide. ”Hey!” he greets them, waving a hand and inviting them closer. ”Weskham's finishing up our breakfast, he'll be here in a moment.”

”Good to see you, Cor,” Clarus says, marching forward to sit down opposite of Cor. Regis follows behind, though he makes sure to clasp Cor's shoulder in passing. ”Gotta say, you're looking a lot better than last we met.”

Cor snorts. Clarus' words aren't untrue: he has gained weight since Regis last saw him, and his tanned cheeks now have the red tint of health hiding under his morning stubble. Still, the scraggly beard does nothing to cover the burn marks creeping up his neck to lick at the underside of his jaw like the flames that left them in the first place. The entire right side of his face seems sagging, sluggish somehow, and when Regis follows the curve of his neck down to a pair of shrunken shoulders he realizes that the strokes left behind their marks too.

”Yeah, I no longer need help pissing or shitting,” Cor said with a roll of his lopsided eyes. ”You, on the other hand, look like you've both aged two decades in two years. Weskham thinks it a blessing your kids ain't taking after you, Clarus.”

”Alas, I can only agree with that,” Clarus sighs, nudging Regis' arm. ”The world wouldn't have been able to handle me if I was smart, strong, _and_ drop-dead gorgeous all at once.”

Despite Cor's obvious avoidance, Regis rolls his eyes at Clarus' remark. If Cor doesn't want to talk about his recovery and the massive behemot in the room, then fine – they have time, a full month to get things sorted out. Though there remains the slightest hint of a slur in Cor's words, Regis is beyond glad to notice that his mental faculties seem to be working as well as before the attack, the heart failures, the stroke, and all else that happened. He hasn't been able to forget how, two years ago, Cor was still struggling with putting sentences together and understanding spoken words, so witnessing how far his friend has come since their last meeting sets Regis' heart at ease.

Weskham's arrival intterupts Regis' thoughts and he looks up at the sound of the kitchen door swinging open. ”You've no idea how much I've missed this,” he groans as soon as the smell of crisp, greasy sausages reaches his nose. ”Weskham, I'm begging you, please come back.”

”You'd actually have to excercise if he did,” Clarus butts in, leaning back to give Weskham the space to set down all the food piled into his arms. Thick sausages, eggs in different forms, sweet-smelling fruits and lightly toasted bread with some cheese on the side... Regis sighs.

”Perhaps it'd be worth it, if this were the reward,” he muses, snagging a piece of orange from one of the bowls. ”Weskham, dear friend, how have you been?”

Weskham sits down next to Cor and begins piling food on his plate. The others follow and though Regis notices Cor's hands shaking ever so slightly, he holds onto his utensils firmly and securely. ”I'm well, thank you,” Weskham says. He pours two glasses of orange juice, one for himself and one for Cor, the second only three quarters full. ”And the two of you? How are the children? They seem to be growing fast.”

”Oh, Gladio's like a weed,” Clarus answers readily while spreading butter on his toast. ”The second I think he's finally stopped growing taller, he starts bulking up instead. The amount of gil I've had to budget both for his clothes and his food is absolutely ridiculous.”

Cor snorts. ”I saw him in TV earlier today. Since when is an open shirt appropriate wear for a foreign visit? Kid should ask Ignis for some advice on how to dress.”

Before Regis can join in mocking Gladio's choice of outer wear, Weskham clears his throat. ”Ignis is Noctis' future advisor, right? How is he holding up?”

”Quite well, quite well,” Regis replies. He takes one of the boiled eggs and begins breaking the shell with his fork. ”He'll be ready to take over next year, when he's of age – I've no doubts over the matter.”

”He's very fond of cooking, actually,” Clarus continues, nodding towards Weskham who hums in pleased surprise. ”I have to say, Wesk, give it a couple years and that boy will be giving you a run for your money.”

Weskhaim quirks an eyebrow and Regis is hit with a sudden sense of nostalgia as he recalls all the times that same expression has been directed at him. ”I don't suppose he has found a way to get His Highness eating vegetables?”

Regis chortles, almost choking on his egg. ”As brilliant as poor Ignis is, not even he is capable of performing miracles,” he answers. His words are met with laughter from both sides of the table, though Regis does notice that Cor seems a little too quiet, almost lost in thought. Two years in Altissia after a year in the hospital has left him distanced from those he thought close – not just Regis and Clarus, but the children as well. Cor has missed Gladio's sixteenth and eighteenth birthdays, and little Iris likely has very few solid memories left of him. Over the past three years Regis has spent many an evening telling himself that Cor surviving the attack that should have killed him is enough, but moments like this leave him wondering if that truly is the case at all.

* * *

They're almost done with breakfast when the slap of wet feet on bare stone echoes through the dining area. In unison, the four men turn to look at the entrance, only to be faced with a startlingly blond boy dressed in a tank top and a pair of shorts. He's soaked through and holds a pair of sneakers hung over his shoulder by the laces.

”Goooood mor–” the boy starts to crow, loud and cheery, only to freeze still when he enters the room. Regis looks at Weskham and Cor, who don't seem surprised at all, and assumes they must know him somehow. At his side, Clarus appears to come to the same realization, his shoulders losing the sudden show of tension.

”Ah, Prompto, there you are,” Weskham says, completely nonplussed. He waves his hand and invites the boy closer. ”Come on over, let me introduce you.”

The boy – Prompto – stands still for a moment, a look of utter horror frozen on his face. A beat later he does as told and toes over to the booth, clearly shy and insecure; the earlier bravado is already long since gone. For some reason, he's soaked head to toe, like he's been swimming, but the gear he wears seems more suitable for running – though when have teenagers done anything sensible and reasonable, Regis muses.

”This is Prompto,” Weskham says, resting a hand on Prompto's shoulder and pulling him almost flush with the table. ”He lives with us. Prompto, these are our friends Regis and Clarus.”

”Um, good morning,” the boy murmurs, trying to smile but obviously frightened. Regis returns the smile all the same, all too used to people acting flustered and embarrassed in his precense.

”Morning, kid,” Clarus greets from Regis' other side. ”Did you fall in a canal or something?”

”Prompto goes running and swimming every morning,” Cor cuts in before Prompto gets the chance to answer. Regis glances over, impressed, and is rewarded with a shy nod. ”There's a designated swimming area nearby.”

There are plenty of those scattered around the city; a pool here, another one there, salt-washed steps leading into softly rocking waves. Regis is not surprised by the fact that a teenage boy would make use of the swimming areas, but rather by the fact that the boy – who appears around the same age as Noctis, give or take a year – would willingly excercise in the pre-sunrise mornings. Of the teenagers Regis has known in his life, only Gladiolus has ever shown such dedication; for a brief moment, he thinks back to a red-cheeked Cor in a beret dashing around a battlefield and immediately returns to his earlier conclusion.

Regis means to ask more of the boy – he's curious, who wouldn't be, of this blond surprise living with two known bachelors – but Weskham beats him to it. ”Why won't you go get dressed, Prompto?” the man smiles, and Regis can't even fault him for it when Prompto is shivering in his soaked clothes. ”There's more food in the kitchen waiting for you.”

As relieved as any shame-faced cadet desperate to run out of the throne room, Prompto drops his chin into a nervous blush that brings dark shadows over his flushing face. ”It, um, it was good to meet you,” he mumbles, eyes flickering between the two adults he knows and the two he doesn't; Regis leans back another fraction, tries to appear a touch less indimidating. ”Um, bye?”

A smile tugs at Regis' lips. ”I'm sure we'll be meeting again,” he says, delighting in the way Prompto's expression falls. The boy skitters off and disappears through the galley door leading into the living quarters above the restaurant, and for a second, all is silent save for the gentle lap of water somewhere.

”' _This is Prompto_ ,'” Clarus repeats in a tone almost mocking, his palms against the edge of the table as he leans forward, ”' _He lives with us_ –'”

Cor's scowl would be enough to kill a lesser man, but for Regis and Clarus, it's hardly an obstacle. Of the two of them, Weskham is the toucher nut to crack and Regis knows better than to assume he can pull the full answer out of him, but damn it if he's not going to try his best.

”So,” he drawls, watching a vein bob on Cor's forehead, ”when did the two of you decide to adopt?”

* * *

Noctis' first day in Altissia is not a particularly interesting one: his schedule for the month is not exactly a full one, but he's expected to show his face to the press a couple times, though thankfully in only a very informal setting. That they are staying at the Presidential Manor means staying with Camelia, who insists that in private, he call her by her name; Noctis, who has grown up hearing people refer to her either as President Claustra or Aunt Cam feels like there's no middle ground to settle for and does as he's told.

She's nice enough, Noctis thinks; hard and stubborn in a way, though she makes no attempts at hiding how much she loves her children. Seeing the President of Accordo kneel down to give her twins a matching set of kisses in the morning is not the weirdest thing Noctis has seen people do but it still feels like something he _shouldn't_ be seeing, something intimate and private. Athalea and Aster are nine years old; they have two years on Iris, who has started acting very weird around Noctis as of late – for reasons Noctis is fairly sure he can guess even if he'd prefer to not to – but nevertheless, all three still remain babies in his eyes. That said, the twins know the Manor like the backs of their hands, and so Noctis doesn't complain when they spend the entire day dragging him around the massive building breaking into outdoor spaces and watery gardens.

Though he can appreciate the foreign beauty of the building, the day is what it is: uninteresting. Later that evening, when they all sit down for dinner separately from Camelia and her children, Noctis describes his day – or rather, prompts Iris into doing so in his place – and then his father finally, finally mentions the early-morning visit to Cor and Weskham.

Weskham has always been bit of a distant uncle to Noctis, feeding him candy when they meet and sending gifts when they don't, but Cor... It's been two years since Noctis last saw Cor and the mere mention of the man's name is still enough to make his stomach roll. He is excited over their plans to visit the two at Maagho, but at the same time, he fears what he will find. He remembers; he didn't quite understand when it all first happened, but he remembers the long healing and then the departure, and that's enough. He remembers.

”And how are they doing?” Ignis asks carefully, without taking his eyes off the terrine on his plate. He's never met Weskham as far as Noctis knows but he, too, remembers how Cor left – or rather, how Cor was taken away from them.

”Quite well, the both of them. Weskham is the same as ever, really,” Regis says in an equally careful tone. Then he tells them what they've all been waiting to hear: ”Cor has recovered very nicely. He can walk on his own, most of the days.”

Noctis is not the only to release a relieved breath. ”Did you ask him to come back?”

Regis looks at him and shakes his head. ”No, not yet,” he says. ”We were merely catching up. Turns out they have a young boy living at Maagho with them, can you believe that?”

The strangled sound that escapes Noctis' throat is enough to prompt Clarus into speaking. ”I never thought I'd see the day!” he grins. ”Cor and Weskham with a child!”

Noctis looks at Gladio who shakes his head incrementally, mouth gaping open. ”What,” Gladio says, ”did they like... adopt or something? Don't you have to be married for that sorta stuff?”

Both Regis and Clarus shrug. It's almost a comical sight, how they eat and breath and speak in unison sometimes, but Noctis is far too distracted to care. ”He's living with them, that's all Weskham said,” Clarus says. Regis hums and nods.

”Cor didn't even say that.”

”No, but Weskham said Cor is _fond_ of the boy, which, I confess, is a combination of words I _never_ though I'd hear together.”

Noctis looks at Gladio while their fathers laugh. He tries to imagine the boy but since the only thing he knows is that he managed to make Cor like him, all his brain can come up with is an image of a smaller Cor Leonis holding onto a dozen swords at once. Across the table, it looks like Gladio is thinking the same.

”And does this boy have a name?” Ignis asks.

”Prompto,” Regis answers, glancing at Clarus, who nods. ”A very lovely young man. Polite and well-mannered. He's the same age as you, Noctis.”

There's nothing he can do to stop the grimace pulling his lips down. Clarus, too busy cutting into his food, doesn't see him and continues: ”He works out every day, too! He returned from a run soon after we arrived at the restaurant. Had gone swimming as well; poor kid was soaked to the bone!”

Noctis imagines Gladio holding a dozen swords and frowns. ”I already have one Gladio,” he says, poking at the remnants of his vegetable-heavy terrine. The chef had called it a seafood dish but all he's been able to taste are the bell peppers. ”I don't need a second one.”

For some reason, his father and Clarus find his words so hilarious that soon they're gasping for breath, leaning against each other's shoulders with red faces and wet eyes. Noctis gives them one look before turning back to his meal, completely uninterested in their antics.

He really sees no point in trying to befriend someone he'll likely never see again.


	4. Introductions II

Droplets of cool water run down Prompto's face when he breaks through the mirror-steady waters in the designated swimming area near Maagho. Panting slightly, he begins swimming towards the stairs leading out of the canal and into the white stone pavements; though the mornings are always cold against his skin, dipping in for a swim after his daily run is a delight he rarely skips. Now that the summer months have arrived, the air grows sweltering by noon, and though the swim will do little to help him brave the midday heat, the morning is a small blessing all the same.

It's still early enough that there are no others in the swimming area, only Prompto and his shadow cast by the orange of the rising sun. The day is breaking beautifully, hardly a cloud in the sky, and he feels _good_ despite Aranea's departure still feeling like a sore wound on his heart. Whistling softly, Prompto slings his sneakers over his shoulder and skips down the road towards Maagho and the little room he now calls home, leaving behind wet footprints and a steady trail of saltwater. He passes a lone gondola and waves at the young man steering it before turning down to the stairs that will take him back to sea level and the restaurant.

It's here he begins to slow down. The memory of accidentally running into the King of Lucis in the dining area is still fresh in his mind, so when Prompto nears the restaurant, he peeks past the partially closed storm shutters to make sure there are no unexpected visitors inside. When he sees nothing out of ordinary, he huffs and steps in.

Weskham is in the kitchen as usual, preparing a breakfast for the three of them. Prompto opens the galley door but doesn't go in, not when he's sweaty and ocean-soaked, still dripping water everywhere. ”I'm back,” he says simply, still a little breathless from his jog.

”So I see,” Weskham says, turning to flash him a brief smile before returning to what looks like the beginnings of a frittata sizzling on a heavy pan. ”Breakfast will be ready soon.”

Prompto nods and skips off, closing one door and pushing through the other. He closes it as quietly as possible before tiptoeing his way upstairs, where he can just barely hear Cor moving around in his room, and hurries into the shower before the salt forms crusts on his skin. By the time he's clean and dressed, he returns to the hallway to find Cor exiting his room, leaning heavily on his cane.

”Morning, Cor,” Prompto greets him, casting a quick look over the man. Cor's face is a little gray the way it always is in the mornings, before his limbs soften and the night-time pains melt away, but Prompto doesn't think he's having a bad day and ultimately that's all that matters.

Cor, who sees Prompto watching, frowns. ”Morning,” he says, limping towards the stairs. ”How was the run?”

”Good,” Prompto says with a grin. The utterly ruined morning jog from a few days earlier had left him irritable and anxious well into the next day, and King Regis and Clarus showing up for breakfast unannounced to him hadn't helped his mood either. Though the time between then and now has cleared the worst of his mood, there is, however, one more thing fluffing up his proverbial feathers. ”Um, Weskham says that we're gonna have dinner guests today?”

Only halfway down the stairs, Cor nods. ”Yeah, Reggie and Clarus are bringing all the kids,” he says and Prompto tries to act like his stomach wasn't trying to knot itself. Cor, despite not even looking in his direction, notices this all the same. ”They're all good kids, Prom. It'll go just fine.”

Prompto doesn't feel convinced. ”But what if,” he murmurs, ”what if I – what I do something embarrassing again?”

At the bottom of the stairs, Cor stops and turns to look at him, so Prompto has no choice but to stall in the middle of the thin staircase. There's nowhere to hide and his anxiety really isn't liking it.

”Prompto,” Cor sighs. ”You had Clarus the second you mentioned working out daily. Reggie's even easier than that. They aren't the kinds of folks who'd give a shit about you doing something _embarrassing_ , kid. They don't take plain rudeness well but I also know you're not the kind of a person who'd start trouble without a reason so that won't be a problem either. But... if, for whatever reason, you end up pissing them off... it won't affect how Weskham and I think about you.”

Prompto hates the way how easily Cor can see all the way to the most guarded depths of his heart. ”'Kay,” he murmurs, pushing past Cor to hold the galley door open.

* * *

Noctis has only ever seen pictures of the Grand Altissian Temple of Leviathan before, yet the structure is so recognizable he doubts he could miss it even without his guides. Today, the twins are supposed to take him to pray before the Hydraean's altar, and though he knows it's a public event the press has been invited to watch, the sudden nerves are barely enough to quench the flutter of excitement in his belly. According to Ignis, he's to give a short interview on the staircase leading into the temple, and while the journalists will likely still be there to take pictures of him leaving the place, that should be it for the day. He'll have several hours of freedom – if his life can ever be called that, a bitter voice reminds him – and then, dinner with Cor and Weskham at Maagho.

Out on the streets the sun is already hot and it's not even noon yet. Aster wastes no time in climbing up Gladio's body until he's sitting perched on a pair of wide shoulders, smiling brightly at them while pointing out various landmarks. Athalea, on the other hand, clings to Noctis' right hand, which has Iris gluing herself to his left one. They're little girls, he a prince. He understands, or tries to, even as Gladio cackles at the pained expression on his face.

”There's the Temple!” Aster points after some twenty minutes of walking. Noctis is already so sweaty he had to shake off the two girls clinging to his arms. ”We have to wash our hands in the bowl 'cause there's no submerged floor here.”

Noctis nods. Ignis made sure to teach him the most crucial points of Accordian customs, including how to behave at any of the numerous temples scattered all over the city in the Hydraean's name. The oldest temples are all built partially underwater, so that there's always an inch or two covering the floor; these places also expect their worshippers to sit and kneel in the water, which, needless to say, is more than a little cumbersome.

Noctis doesn't even want to imagine sitting in seawater for the duration of an entire service. ”There's a waterfall inside the Temple, isn't there?” he asks, looking down at Athalea who nods.

”That's where the water comes from,” she says, spinning ahead to glide her hands through the air in a path following the curve of the stairs. ”It flows through the entire Temple and down the stairs to the bowl and then even further, until it disappears into the canals and the sea, where it'll be with Leviathan once more!”

”That's right,” Ignis says. He surveys the area before stopping. ”Highness, perhaps you should give the interview right away?”

Noctis nods. ”Sure thing.” There are only a small handful of cameramen and reporters standing around, all waiting quietly at the bottom of the staircase. Were they in Insomnia, Noctis wouldn't be able to move without Crownsguards making sure he has road to walk on; now, there's no need for Gladio and the two secret service agents guarding the twins to do anything but follow behind them. It's almost weird, actually having to walk up to the TV crews and the journalists instead of waiting for them to come to him. Noctis can't remember it ever happening before

Even the crowd of civilians surrounding the Temple is small, and though the people at the fringes of the mass are clearly just passing by, those actually waiting for him are not inattentive, but not visibly excited either – save for a handful of royalists scattered here and there, usually the very front of the rows. Briefly, Noctis wonders if they're too early, but he knows Ignis too well for this to be a possibility. He's not sure if he should be disappointed – the visit is mostly for PR purposes, after all – but the thin crowd of people has him feeling relief instead.

”Your Highness, would you be willing to give us an interview?” one of the reporters asks, smiling at him with polite kindness. When he agrees, she steps to his side and begins a litany of questions.

_What does he think about Altissia?_ He's been here for only a short while but everything looks really beautiful. The weather is warmer than he's used to (laughter) but the gorgeous sea more than makes up for it.

_Is there anything he's looking forward to?_ The field trip to the aquarium. He's been told he'll get to see the winning piece, a music video where the children sing about the importance of keeping the oceans clean of plastic, which is something he considers not only extremely important but also very close to his own heart.

_He must be planning on a fishing trip as well._ Naturally.

The interview doesn't last long. After they've thanked each other, Noctis turns and begins the climb towards the marble bowl sitting on the landing in the middle of the lenghty staircase. ”That went well,” Ignis murmurs to his ear. ”Well done, Noctis.”

Gladio grumbles something about obviously practiced answers but Noctis pays him no mind. For some, more personal interviews he has always been given the questions in advance, so his advisors could cross out the inappropriate ones and script his answers out for him. This wasn't one of those cases but Noctis still feels there is little difference between the two. The reporters always want to hear very specific answers – be it praises over the beauty of a foreign country or an interest in spending time with their children – and since giving those very same answers is what he's supposed to do, it's what he does.

It isn't like he'd been lying either, Noctis thinks when they step through the open doors. He is interested in the field trip, like he is planning on going fishing, preferably several times and in as many different places as possible. If his answers sound too rehearsed then it's not his problem he's doing exactly what he's been taught to do.

* * *

After visiting the Temple, they stop at the bowl to wash their hands a second time. Noctis shakes the excess water from his hands and flaps them around in the soft breeze, waiting for the skin to dry, and takes a look around. Like he guessed, only a few photographers remain waiting for them, and the crowd has dissipated almost completely; the few people remaining are the obvious royalists, wearing Lucian black dotted with gold.

They eat lunch at a small café of the twins' choice. During the walk, they get brief glances from passerbys who first look at them surprise and recognition, only to turn away after polite smiles. Only one older woman – a Lucian expat, she introduces herself – stops them for a brief discussion, and it's only after they have bid goodbye to her that Noctis starts to think he understands.

At home, he's used to large, noisy crowds. The thing is, they consist of the two extremes – the die-hard royalists and vocal people who, for whatever reason, dislike the Crown. The quiet middle is rarely anywhere to be seen so Noctis doesn't know how large it is, but here in Altissia, he thinks that's what people are: politely, positively indifferent.

It's almost freeing.

* * *

The temple – Prompto's temple – is easily one of the smallest, most weatherworn ones in Altissia. The facade is made of brown, damp wood and dark stone covered by tall vines, and though the building reaches an amazing height, the floor is a small one where it's squeezed into a narrow shape by the neighboring houses. When Prompto walks in, wearing his usual tunic – a short turquoise piece with massive folds layered over his chest and back, cinched by a silvery rope around his waist – the temple appears empty, though he knows the Guide is likely hiding in one of the smaller rooms by the side.

Prompto stops at the doorway to take off his shoes, then steps down onto the submerged floor. The wooden planks are already slippery against his feet and in the distance, where beams of light from the massive skylights brighten the water, he can almost see the fuzzy algae growing. Prompto smiles; though the water is technically free to move, it tends to stagnate unless there's a storm to toss it around.

He finds the Guide in the break room, where the floor is high and dry to keep all old records safe. There aren't a lot of those left, any more, everything first moved to the Grand Temple and then electronized, and the thick book open on the table only holds records of all ceremonies performed in the temple.

”Good morning, Father,” Prompro greets the old man, trying speak as loud and clear as he can. ”Family history again?”

The Guide blinks and looks up slowly. ”Ah, Prompto,” he says after a moment. ”Yes, yes, a young woman is looking into her grandmother's life – one of my first weddings, I remember, though I can't recall the date. A very lovely bride, she was, though the groom was one of those foreigners, from Tenebrae I believe...”

The murmurs fall into a thoughtful hum and Prompto grins as he drops his shoes and bag by the clothes rack. ”I think I should wash the floor again,” he says. ”It's starting to get slippery again and I don't want anyone to fall.”

It's the Guide he's mostly worried about, but if the old man knows it, he doesn't say so. The temple is too small to get many visitors, only a handful of older folks showing up for the weekly service, though sometimes they get people – usually tourists – looking to experience a proper Altissian temple of Leviathan. The locals have long since renounced the traditional submerged floors in favor of the modern comfort of not kneeling in water.

”Yes, that may be a good idea,” the Guide speaks. ”We can hold your lessons afterward.”

”Thank you, Father,” Prompto says, already moving to get the brooms. There are two of them, a larger one on a sturdy stick and a smaller, hand-held brush for the little corners the large brush can't reach. They're both made of wood – now brown with age – and sturdy fibres, at least as old as Prompto is but still in good shape.

He knows that scrubbing the floors by hand is a task always given to the newest members regardless of temple. The few other novices he knows aren't all particularly fond of it – Aranea hates it, in fact – but Prompto doesn't mind it. There's something almost therapeutic in the sound the bristles make against the floor, in the strain of his body when he pushes the broom down with all his weight to get rid of a particularly resistant patch of algae. By the time he's done with the larger broom, he's covered in sweat; then he grabs the brush, sits himself down in one of the corners, and begins the arduous task of scrubbing the nooks and crannies.

He's soaked within moments. He knows his tunic will dry as soon as he gets out of the floor – that's why it's cut like a short dress – but the pair of tight-fitting biking shorts he wears underneath are another thing. Prompto likes getting down on the floor, he likes crawling around scrubbing a bristly brush against water-soaked floors, yet moments like this make him understand why newer temples are built the way they are.

After he's done scrubbing the slimy corners and the last, silvery fish scales from around the altar, Prompto gets up and retrieves an old steel bucket. Swiping sweat from his forehead, he walks out of the temple to dip the bucket in the canal outside, ferrying sea water inside to flush the floating algae away before it gets a chance to set in. On his last trip outside, a diving seagull catches his attention and he stalls, watching the bird fly past him in a blur of white wings and loud caws.

He can see the ocean from here.

It wasn't always so, though Prompto doesn't remember coming this way before the storm changed everything; if he did, he never paid the area any actual attention. The water before him is calm, barely rippling in the gentle breeze, but he knows what it looks like when the waves breach the seawall. He knows how tall the waves can grow, how low this part of the city is in comparison, and he knows how feeble humans are under the wrath of the Hydraean. On a calm day like this, the collapsed buildings are still visible under the surface.

Prompto swallows and looks away. Nearby, there's a young couple with two older women with them, gazing around. The young woman looks at him, hesitantly. ”Excuse me,” she says, ”but do you work at this temple?”

”I sure do!” Prompto answers, walking up to the group. The empty bucket bangs against his thigh with every step he takes. ”Can I help you somehow?”

The man nods and pulls the young woman under his arm. ”We're getting married,” he says, exchanging a brief, smitten look with the woman. They're both smiling, almost teary-eyed, and Prompto finds his own smile growing larger when he realizes what is happening. ”We're still looking at places, but this one is on our list of possible temples for the wedding ceremony...”

He trails off and Prompto nods, excited. ”Congratulations!” he gushes. ”I'm just a novice still but the Guide is in, if you'd like to talk to him – or you can just come in and have a look around.”

The couple nods and the two other women – their mothers, Prompto is guessing, step forward. ”I understand this place has a submerged floor?” she asks, and Prompto nods.

”Yes, ma'am, and no pews either, though at previous weddings people have brought in chairs for people to sit in when needed,” he says, leading the group towards the open doorway. As old as the place is, it's still beautiful, and Prompto knows just how gorgeous it looks in wedding photographs. They don't get a lot of weddings at their temple, but when they do, Prompto makes a point of enjoying them as best as he can.

* * *

He's late.

They're about to have dinner with King Regis and Prince Noctis and all the other royal people tagging along with them and he's late.

It's not a good thing. The engaged couple didn't stay that long but they threw the Guide way off his game, and then the lesson on old scripture ended up running longer than expected when the Guide went off tangent (as he usually does) and Prompto kept on listening in his starry-eyed haze (as he usually does) and now he's running through the streets of Altissia as fast as his feet will carry him. Prompto likes to think himself a good runner, especially for someone his age, but all of sudden it's like there are no muscles in his legs and no air in his lungs, because he does _not_ have the time to pace himself like he's supposed to do.

When he arrives at Maagho, he's five minutes late. Weskham doesn't really do super strict meal times – they eat when they're all hungry – but today they have guests and Prompto doesn't think the usual rules hold. Gasping for breath, he comes to a halt in front of the full dining area, immediately spotting three men in black uniforms standing guard in the dark corners, out of everyone's way. Too focused on not being any more late than he already is, Prompto doesn't pay them any attention until one of them bars him from stepping behind the bar, where the two doors are.

Blinking, Prompto looks up at the man. ”Um,” he murmurs, looking around in bewilderment. His heart is still beating too fast and his tunic is drenched in sweat. ”Um–”

”Might wanna turn around, kid,” the man says. He has an Lucian accent and this close, Prompto can make out the tiny skull prints on his uniform, though he's too out of breath to really think about it. ”Entrance is employees only.”

Prompto is only capable of gaping but luckily he's saved by one of the waitresses breezing in through the kitchen door, a massive tray held up on one shoulder. ”Oh, that's Prompto,” she says as soon as she sees him standing in front of her, ”didn't Mr. Armaugh tell you? They're expecting him at the back.”

His heart skips a beat at the mention of him being expected. The guard glances between Prompto and the waitress, then steps aside to let him pass. ”Sorry, I didn't realize who you were,” he says, leering. ”Guess I'm not used to people who'd keep the King waiting.”

The waitress rolls her eyes and snaps at the guard but the damage is already done. Prompto flinches and hurries into the heated kitchen, where Weskham's staff is busy with the dinner service. The man himself is nowhere to be seen and Prompto skips towards the back door, feeling his stomach throw cartwheels. His eyes are burning but it's not because of the massive tub of diced onions he passes.

At the door, he takes a deep breath and puts on his best smile; he's already embarrassed Cor and Weskham by showing up late, and he knows his appearance isn't anything to be admired either, not when he's just spent half an hour running across the city. Still, he's going to try because trying is all he knows, so with that thought, he pushes the door open and steps inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent waaaaay too long coming up with a hierarchy for all the religious people in this AU so here's a short summary of how things work, top to bottom:
> 
> 1\. Oracle, Supreme Priest(ess) -- Luna (truly religious people call her Lady Lunafreya rather than Princess Lunafreya)  
> 2\. High Priests/Priestesses -- one for each astral, they live and work at the six temples in Tenebrae under the Oracle's guidance  
> 3\. National religious leaders from countries other than Tenebrae, idk what to title them yet  
> 4\. Guide (e.g. Leviathan's Guide or Guide of Leviathan) -- the highest-ranking priest(ess) at each individual temple  
> 5\. Priest(ess) -- rest of the ordained clergy  
> 6\. Novice -- people who are planning on joining the clergy but who haven't yet been ordained


	5. The Fun in Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A HIT AND RUN
> 
> YOU'RE ALL BEING HIT BY A SURPRISE UPDATE AFTER SEVEN MONTHS OF LITERALLY NOTHING
> 
> I AM RUNNING AWAY WITH NO GUARANTEE OF FUTHER UPDATES
> 
> love y'all so so much

When they'd first arrived at the Presidential Manor, Noctis had looked up at the white columns and statues with an admiring reverence he rarely felt; his very home is one of the grandest man-made structures on Eos, and there are few places that can honestly claim a competition with its grim splendor. Like Fenestala Manor, the Presidential Manor in Altissia is easily one of those places, and when he's not busy fulfilling his princely duties, Noctis spends his time wandering around the palace-like building, at first following the route the twins took him through on their little introductory tour, then stepping astride for adventures of his own. On a few occasions he's turned away by a guard or a simple sign on a wall, but for the most of it, he's free to go as he wishes, and so it is what he does. He walks past hanging gardens and rooms with bridges for floors, colorful fish swimming under his feet; he studies fountains and waterfalls and little streams of water that flow in bronze chutes installed directly onto floors and stairs, just like the one at the Grand Temple. There are statues and paintings and countless years of history surrounding him wherever he looks, and though Noctis – from birth raised to remember, to honor – doesn't actually care for the study of past times, he admires it all the same.

Three days into the visit, the twins show him one of their favorite places: a small nook behind a waterfall fountain, placed high enough that Aster and Athalea need each other's help to climb in. The lower edge reaches Noctis' chest so he can just lift himself up and hoist a leg over it, and then he's in. It's a quiet place, curtained behind the hush of falling water, and when he starts to bore of the Manor he begins spending his free time there. Some snacks in a pocket and his phone in hand, it's not so different from sitting in his rooms at home and waiting for nightfall to come end his boredom.

It's here is father finds him. They're one week into the visit and the shiny excitement of having a new city to explore is beginning to wear off, leaving behind the soft melancholy that has colored Noctis' life as long as he dare remember. So when he looks up from his phone long enough to notice Regis carefully making his way through the thin, plant-clogged path over clear-blue water, he only has a sigh left so speak.

”Noctis,” his father greets him; he doesn't try to climb up to the nook, instead choosing to lean against the wall. ”A beautiful room such as this seems lost on your sulking.”

Noctis grunts and swipes his thumb across his phone to make his character shield itself from an attack. ”I'm not sulking,” he murmurs, then goes in for an attack of his own. It doesn't land so he tries again, this time managing a hit but it misses the glowing orb on the monster's forehead and doesn't do much damage. ”Ignis said I could spend my breaks however I wanted to.”

Regis hums. ”I suppose he did,” he says. ”Tell me, what did you think of Prompto?”

Noctis had been expecting the question ever since the dinner at Maagho, yet hearing it spoken is enough to startle him so badly he looks up in horrified bewilderment, then in frustration as the phone between his palms vibrates to let him know the monster has managed to land a hit on his character. Scowling, he presses the pause tab, though his health is already low enough it's not possible for him to finish the fight alive.

”Prompto? I dunno, I guess he was okay enough?”

He doesn't really have an opinion on Prompto but he can guess why his father is asking and that's enough to make him frown deeper. The dinner two days earlier had been neither a disaster nor a shining success story, though the food had been great; they'd sat around two tables, the adults and the ”children” separated, and the differences in the mood of the two tables had been visible to the naked eye.

Prompto had been... a little weird, in a way Noctis didn't mind that much; he'd looked awfully stressed after showing up some five minutes late, and though Ignis hadn't been enamored by him, Gladio at least had been a bit impressed when Prompto told them he'd run there from across the city. Prompto had been nice enough, but Noctis hadn't been interested in making a friend – still isn't – and any conversations between the four of them had died as soon as they'd started.

Noctis hadn't really cared about it then, nor does he care about it now. Unfortunately for him, Regis very obviously doesn't share his opinion. ”He seems like a nice young man,” Regis says idly. ”Forgive your old father for his meddling, but I did notice the two of you looking like you enjoyed each other's company... once or twice.”

Noctis draws in a breath and holds onto it. Regis isn't wrong, not exactly; the few words passed over the table had been surprisingly easy, especially when taking into account first Noctis' own indifference and then Prompto's very obvious anxiety. They'd almost joked, once, before Noctis had remembered the pointlessness of it all and re-erected his personal walls. There is a part of him that thinks it titillating to have someone his age to talk to, but the fact remains that he's not here in Altissia to make a friend. Less than one month from now, he'll be leaving the island for Insomnia, and that knowledge alone is enough to keep him from entertaining any funny thoughts. It's possible it'll be years before he gets a chance to return to Accordo.

”I don't need you to make my friends for me, dad,” Noctis exhales after a moment. ”Besides, no point in befriending someone I'll never see again.”

Regis huffs. ”Son,” he says, ”please allow me to point out that the decive in your hands does have functions other than slaying monsters and throwing chocobos at garulas.”

Heat crawls up Noctis' face. ”Angry Chocobos is so last season, dad,” he says, trying to avoid the topic. Regis laughs and for one, blessed moment, the conversation ends there; then the laughter turns into a forlorn sigh and Noctis steels himself for more.

”Ignis has asked me if he could spare some time to meet with Weskham,” Regis explains. ”He was quite excited after eating Weskham's food; I'm sure you noticed as much.”

Already guessing where this is going, Noctis nods. ”I don't see what that's got to do with me not making as many friends as you'd like me to,” he says with a huff.

Regis is silent for a beat. ”It would do Ignis well to have someone like Weskham to talk to,” he comments eventually, almost dismissive of Noctis' earlier words; ”in the meanwhile, I do believe it would also do you some good to get some fresh air.”

”I've already seen enough of the city,” Noctis sighs. During the one week he has spent in Altissia, he's already visited the biggest landmarks and tourist attractions, guided either by the twins or Ignis' plans. ”I mean, unless it's fishing...”

He trails off, a hopeful twinge poking fun at his melancholy, but his father laughs, short and just a touch regretful – or so Noctis thinks, or hopes. Shoulders slumping, he drawns into himself, almost scowling when Regis touches his knee with a bony, shaking hand.

”You'll have more than enough time to fish,” he smirks. The twinkle in his eyes makes Noctis feel warm from happiness and embarrassment both. ”And to mope around the Manor – not that you could not do that at home, mind you...”

A drawn-out groan turns into a cough in Noctis' throat. The air in Altissia is increasingly wet and hot as the sun reaches for its zenith, and the crowded buildings that make up the streets are a barrier no wind can breach. Just _thinking_ about leaving the relative coolness of the Manor makes him nauseous and weak-headed, just as thinking about the open seas makes him _crave_ with all his heart and soul. Blue waves glitter in his eyes and toss sprinkles of salted foam at his face as he tosses his bait into the sea, and it's all so good he can _feel_ it despite the sweat clinging to his hair and the dampness under his arms.

The sound of Regis clearing his throat pulls Noctis out of this thoughts, and with a sinking feeling he realizes there is no way out of the friendship-matchmaking business his dad has gotten into.

* * *

It's been some thirty awkward seconds since Noctis watched Ignis cross Maagho's floor and disappear into the kitchens, and still he doesn't know what he's supposed to do or say. He's got Gladio and a Glaive by the name of Nyx Ulric with him; he knows enough of Nyx to not mind him, but no matter how hard he tries to justify his guards' presence, the bitter taste on his tongue remains. Prompto stands some feet away, shuffling nervously from one foot from the other, the high-pitched chuckles long since dead on his lips. This time, he's wearing regular shorts and a T-shirt with a saying Noctis associates with a cartoon he somehow recognizes but can't identify, but which makes the blond look like a totally different guy compared to the temple novice he'd met a couple days before.

”So,” Prompto mumbles eventually, one hand scratching the back of his neck while the other twitches by his thigh. He's so visibly nervous Noctis can taste it. ”Is there, uh, some place you wanna go or...”

A grimace pulls at Noctis' lips. ”Not really,” he says. Both Gladio and Nyx make long-suffering sounds behind his back. ”I mean, I'd rather just stay here or something. I don't know.”

The restaurant is both seated on the canal and shaded by the buildings around it, and the air at its front door is the closest to cool Noctis has felt since the last time he opened the mini fridge in his bedroom. Sitting somewhere in Maagho while waiting for Ignis to finish learning his food lessons sounds much better an idea than touring the city with a guy he has no interest in meeting, but he doubts any of the people around would let him, especially as something in Prompto's demeanor makes him think the blond is as much of an unwilling participant as Noctis himself is.

”Ah, well...” Prompto inhales in response. The shaky grin plastered on his face wavers and he looks around, as if the landing around them was hiding all the answers to their misery.

Noctis is considering turning around and walking back to the Presidential Manor when Gladio speaks up. ”Let's just get walking,” he sighs. ”With the two of you making the decisions we'll never get anywhere otherwise. Kid, you know of any good bookstores around these parts?”

Prompto squints at Gladio for a second, then glances at Noctis, who can only shrug his shoulders. He already hates the way this day is going; waiting outside a bookstore while Gladio browses through every single tome on the shelves is not any more awful an outcome than literally anything else they could be doing.

”Independent?” Prompto asks after a second, already as good as bouncing on the balls of his feet. When Gladio nods, the expression on his face brightens, and in turn, Noctis feels his own face grow darker. ”Sure, let's go!”

* * *

The bookstore thing happens just as Noctis predicted it would: he, Prompto, and Nyx stand outside while Gladio wastes an eternity on the inside. At first, they stand around in awkward silence until Nyx snaps and goads Prompto into talking. Once the blond gets going, there is apparently no stopping him at all, and to his chagrin, Noctis finds himself cracking a smile over some of the things he says. Every now and then, either Nyx or Prompto will look his way to try to include him in the conversation, but after a while, Noctis pulls out his phone and gets browsing the way-too-mundane depths of the internet. They leave him alone after that.

Eventually Gladio exits the store with a paper bag full of books in one arm. He sighs like a man who has just run a marathon and grabs the phone from Noctis' hand, ignoring the yelp in favor of dropping the device in the bag plastered with the store's name and contact details.

”Man, I sure am hungry.” Gladio speaks in loud tones to cover up Noctis' grumbling. ”Kid, what's the best place around here? Other than Maagho, of course,” he adds with a wink.

Noctis expects an answer like the one that brought them to the bookstore, but instead of humming and providing them with someplace to go, Prompto's shoulders creep up to his ears and he looks around, simultaneously eager and terrified. Noctis, of course, is intrigued, but his two guardians are ready to dampen all his fun before it can even get started.

”Nothing dangerous–” Nyx manages to say before Prompto squeaks, red-faced and shaking his head.

”No, no, it's not – it's just that she's Weskham's nemesis and I'm not allowed in the store but she makes the _best_ hot dogs in the city and I thought you might like that–”

Now, Noctis is definitely intrigued. ”What do you mean, _nemesis_?” he asks, pitching his body forward by a fraction of an inch. Next to him, Nyx appears mildly interested but also vaguely unsure; Gladio, however, is looking at Prompto with a quirked eyebrow Noctis knows means business.

”How can someone in the restaurant business have a nemesis?” Gladio laughs while Prompto is still spluttering out incomprehensive syllables. Noctis reaches past Nyx to shove at Gladio's arm – still cool from the airconditioning inside the bookstore, the asshole – and turns to Prompto expectantly.

”Well, um, you see,” the blond starts. He glances over his shoulder, almost as if he was expecting to see Weskham or the nemesis looming behind his back, Noctis doesn't know which one, and then returns his attention to the rest of the group with a visible swallow. ”So, uh, as you – maybe – know? Weskham makes the best pork sausages in the city.”

The ocean has separated Noctis from Weskham for just about as long as he can remember existing, but the occasional meet-ups and the regular, lavish praise from his dad and Clarus both bring forth memories and imagined scenes of food so delicious it shouldn't even exist. With Ignis by his side, Noctis is probably more than a little biased against Weskham, but – he has heard of the sausages, more than once, and so he nods.

”Never eaten anything so good,” Gladio agreed, nudging Nyx' arm with a sly wink. ”You need a get a taste of it, man, Wesk knows his pork sausages better than, well, anyone. What about it?”

The last question is directed at Prompto, who nods. ”There's an annual culinary competition–” he pauses for a second as the others, Noctis included, break out in quiet gasps of dawning understanding ”–and every year he's participated, Weskham's pork sausages have been titled the best in the city. Like it's not just – people saying they are, he can claim that it's like official and sh–stuff.”

”And the nemesis?”

”Sophie Pisano,” Prompto agrees with yet another dip of his chin. He's grinning wide enough to show off his teeth and all of sudden, Noctis is almost taken aback by how unanxious the other has grown since the start of the conversation. ”She owns a couple restaurants in the city – one that's like _really_ high dining, really _really_ high, and then a more casual place that sells stuff like hot dogs and burgers, not like Kenny's but–”

”And her sausages...?” Nyx cuts in. Prompto pauses, licks at his lips, looks around once more; Noctis almost wants to strangle him for stopping mid-story, because he can see the generic route of the plot but not the details, and all of sudden he's _thirsting_ for the full story. It's almost like the start of a detective mystery plot, an adventure for him to crack open, and all of sudden, Noctis is anything but bored.

”Her pork dishes are great,” Prompto says slowly, in a tense tone as if he was seconds away from cackling out loud, ”but she specializes in seafood.”

”Ah.” A brief, blessedly cool gust of wind hits Noctis' face just as starts to understand. ”So... Weskham gets first place in, what, red meat–”

”–and second in seafood, while she gets first place in seafood and second in the meat category!” Prompto finishes for him, the excitement on his face highlighted by a sheen of sweat.

For a second or two, Noctis stares at Prompto's grin while Prompto stares right back at him. He spends those seconds thinking about the sweat on Prompto's forehead and how glad he is that even the locals seem susceptible to the terrible heat, thankful that he isn't the only one with a soaked shirt and a flushed face, but somewhere between those thoughts, he also has the time to notice a different kind of warmth growing not outside his body but inside of it. _Heatstroke_ , his mind helpfully supplies as soon as he registers the change, but Noctis knows better.

Holding back the last guffaw of laughter, he straightens his back and lets his gaze slide from Prompto to the street behind him, the red-bricked building across it and the windowboxes overflowing with heavily blooming plants. The grin leaves Prompto's face at the same time as Noctis averts his eyes, but there's no ignoring him or the twin set of sighs masking a lecture he's as good as memorized by now.

”But, um, there are other places of course,” Prompto starts to hurry. In the corner of Noctis' eye, the vague shape of his body wiggles with the same anxiety his voice betrays, and the look Gladio sents Noctis' way is almost enough to make him regret his manners; but only almost, because he already knows this is the easier way out.

”No,” he says, still not looking at Prompto. The sooner he lets go of the feeling of a smile on his face, the sooner he pushes the other teen away, the sooner he'll be okay. ”Let's go see this nemesis.”

* * *

The restaurant is not too far off, but by the time they reach it, the oppressive heat of the city has turned downright suffocating on Noctis. A lot of it has to do with the looks Nyx and Gladio keep on giving him, but also with the way he keeps his eyes trained wherever Prompto isn't walking with the downturned chin and the nervous fumble of his fingers.

Somewhere between the bookstore and the restaurant, a swarm of bees has settled in the crevices between Noctis' heart and ribcage. He keeps on thinking back to the moment when he and Prompto grinned at each other and how dejected the other looked when he turned away. He contemplates it all the way up to the point where their path widens out into a large, square plaza full of people, some walking by or standing around, others seated at any of the numerous tables dotting the scenery.

Noctis is beyond relieved to find that Prompto won't be entering the restaurant. ”Just, um, bring me whatever's the spiciest thing on the menu,” he says, gaze flickering between the tips of his shoes and Gladio's face. ”I'll pay you back afterwards, I promise!”

Gladio rolls his eyes at the words and somewhere deep inside, Noctis approves. With Nyx in tow, they march into the restaurant; as they pass people chewing on burgers and hot dogs alike, Noctis steals as many glances at them as possible. They don't seem too heavy on the vegetables, and according to the traveling shows he sometimes watches on TV, the amount of visibly local people is a good sign. The inside of the restauraunt is clean, but even more importantly cool, and Noctis hardly minds the waiting time.

There are four people working that he can see; two running the registers, and two more in the kitchens. They make hasty enough of work that any grumbling reaching Noctis' ears is half-hearted at best, with the exception of a middle-aged couple he assumes his own people based on their reactions when they notice his presence. A mountain of a stone settles in his stomach when he catches sight of the widening eyes and the way the woman gropes for her husband's arm, and within a beat of a second, Noctis prepares himself for a scene. However, just as he slides sideways behind the bulk of Gladio's body, a woman's voice stops the situation from devolving into anything more.

”Well, well,” she drawls out, ”look what the cat dragged in.”

Instantly, Noctis feels things go from bad to worse, but as he turns in – takes out the woman's stocky silhouette and wild red curls – he also can't ignore the feeling of something being off. Both Gladio and Nyx stiffen by his side, yet the woman continues her way further into the restaurant, weaving past customers while waving her hand in the universal sign to follow after her. It's not until she steps behind the registers that Noctis realizes she must work here; then he sees the way she and the rest of the staff greet each other, and catches on.

”Well, your highness?” Sophie Pisano calls at them. Some of the other customers mill about awkwardly, but most ignore them; Noctis still feels heavy and weighted down. ”Please, it would be my honor to show you how exquisite Accordian cuisine can be at its best... None of that, ah, shall we say _mediocricity_ that Mr. Armaugh must have been feeding you _poor_ little things. Now, what shall it be, my darlings?”

Unsure of what to do, Noctis stares at her for another beat longer, but then both Gladio and Nyx are pushing him through the crowds; when he looks up at their faces, he sees them wearing a very specific set of twin grins, all sharp teeth and twinkling eyes, and the stone in his belly heats his face in horrified embarrassment.

”Guys,” he tries to murmur, but to no avail; behind the registers, Sophie has wrapped herself in a blue-streaked apron and awaits their orders with obvious delight. ”Guys, please...”

Her voice, when she'd spoken of Weskham, had rubbed Noctis the wrong way; distant as they may be, Weskham is still one of his uncles, one of the very few family members he has ever had, and hearing someone jeer at him is not something that would settle well with him. That said, Gladio doesn't seem bothered in the least, and even when Sophie begins to fill out their orders while narrating her own prowess – telling Nyx that he, at least, must appreciate proper seafood dishes, as Galahd truly is a wonderful source of both traditional and new, innovative cuisines – Noctis can't bring himself to walk out either. The expression she wears is one he's seen on Gladio's face after too many training sessions to even think of counting them, smug and teasing, but not cruel. Also, the food she's piling out for them looks delicious as hell.

It's not until Gladio orders Prompto's portion – ”the spiciest thing on the menu, _ma'am_ ” – that the mood changes. For a hundredth of a second, Sophie freezes, her eyes sweeping past Noctis, Gladio, and Nyx, then the restaurant, then the massive windows lining the front.

”So that boy is with you lot,” she says, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, and just like that, Noctis can see her tossing them all out of the restauraunt and into wherever Prompto is currenly hiding and waiting for them. ”Hmmph, couldn't bring him here, could you? Leviathan knows Weskham isn't feeding that poor child enough...”

As the words dissolve into heated murmurs, so does the image in Noctis' head. Stuck in a perfect mixture of confusion and alarm, he glanced sideways first at Gladio, then at Nyx, who shrug but say nothing. Earlier, when Prompto told them he wasn't allowed inside the restauraunt, Noctis had believed him – but now the owner herself is acting like she'd want to tie him down in a chair and force feed him a meal or two. Or three.

A couple minutes later, they walk out of the restauraunt and into the blazing heat of the streets. Noctis groans as soon as the hot air hits his face – now clammy with old, cooled-down sweat – and shifts the colorful paper bag in his arms so that the ice-cold drinks rest against his upper stomach, where they threaten to freeze a patch of his skin but do nothing to help the rest of his body.

”That was weird,” he comments once they're all outside and clear of the worst crowd of tables and customers sliding in and out of the glass door, ”why do you think–”

”Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Gladio interrupts him, looking around over the heads of the people around him; he's a good head taller than most of them, Noctis notices glumly. ”Let's go find the kid.”

They find Prompto at the same location where they'd left him, half in the shadows and fiddling with his phone, which he slides not into a pocket, but the weird plastic purse thing he wears crossed over his torso. He also retrieves a small wallet in exchange, then squares up his shoulders when Gladio tries to wave him off.

”I can pay–” Prompto tries, but it's useless; Noctis knows it would be, even if Sophie had taken a payment from them.

”She wouldn't let us pay, kiddo,” Nyx says, stepping forward to ruffle Prompto's hair, ”so you're not paying us, either. Now, you wouldn't happen to know any good spots for eating, would you?”

In the end, it takes so much more prodding and pushing from Gladio and Nyx before Prompto relents into leading them away that Noctis starts to fear for their food, though the miserable voice at the back of his head isn't too shy about reminding him that in the worst heat of the day, there's no chance of their food cooling down anytime soon. Still, he can feel their sodas start to sweat through the paper bag in his hands, and can imagine the ice cubes melting into disgusting sugar water that will only serve to ruin their lunch.

Prompto leads them into one of the swimming holes dotting the cityscape – a literal hole in the foundations of the semi-floating city, surrounded by stairs and landings leading down to water level. At first, Noctis thinks it the worst place possible as it's frequented by more than a few kids and teenagers enjoying the holidays, but like everywhere else in Altissia, their gazes only pause on him for a fraction of a second before glancing off him like he was a total nobody, nevertheless causing his heart to jump and miss a beat.

”We're usually pretty chill about famous people,” Prompto murmurs all of sudden, turning to flash Noctis a brief grin. ”C'mon, let's go sit in the shade, guys – uh, your highness. Sir.”

A tired heat rises to Noctis' face along the weary sigh catching in his throat, and as soon as Prompto turns his back to them, he slams his elbow into Gladio's side to turn the guffaw of laughter into a grunt of alarm. They find an empty, shadowy corner a few feet above the splashing water and sit down to eat, the food easily dished out; still confused and even somewhat suspicious, Noctis watches Prompto take the spice-laden hot dog from Nyx' extended hand.

”Hey, why'd you say you weren't allowed in the restauraunt?” he asks before the others can stop him. As a result, Prompto jumps and almost drops his hot dog. ”We ran into the owner and dunno, she sounded like she wouldn't have minded you coming in with us, you know?”

The words come out even more accusatory than Noctis truly intends them as; Gladio glares at him over Prompto's ruffled hair while Nyx gives a subtle shake of his head. Prompto himself flinches and sucks in a sharp breath, shoulders tense and up to his reddening ears. If he cared at all, Noctis would feel embarrassed over obviously putting the other up on the spot, but he doesn't, and so he only continues to glower under the heavy weight of Gladio's stare. What Prompto told them is so at odds with Sophie's words that Noctis feels as if he's been lied to, and unlike literally everything else in his life, this is not a situation where he'd need to smile and nod through the miserable bubble of anger blobbing around his chest.

”Well, I, ah,” Prompto stutters, his eyes on the concrete by his folded knees, ”I just – thought it wouldn't be too good if I went there, because, because I don't know if–”

”It's all good, kid.” Gladio's voice is rough when he cuts into the nervous rambling, ”if you didn't want to go into the store then you didn't want to go into the store and that's fucking that. Now – let's see if this food really is better than Uncle Wesk makes at home.”

Every last muscle on Gladio's face is _still_ doing its best to signal his murderous intent, directed at Noctis and Noctis only. On a normal day, it wouldn't be anywhere near enough to make Noctis back off, but when he looks at Gladio he looks at Prompto as well, and sees the blond open his mouth to speak, then close it again, chin tilted town. His hands shake around the hot dog he's holding onto. Noctis thinks he can see tears in his eyes.

With a weary sigh just as heavy and oppressive as the wet heat around them, Noctis unwraps his own meal and bites into it. It's too good to be real.

* * *

Late, late that night, when the sun has fallen and the air has cooled down, Noctis stands at the balcony doors of their suite and stares out at the darkned sea, feeling – for the first time since morning – like he was alive. Though the weather is anything but windy, there's a draft blowing in from the doors and right past him, slivers of air on his arms not unlike the sensation of stepping into a body of water that's just the right balance between cool and warm.

Scowling, Noctis steps back from the doors. ”I don't understand how anyone can live like this,” he grumbles at anyone willing to listen, ”they die during the days then go to bed when the city's actually, like, livable.”

Ignis' snort is too soft, too quiet; were he not standing just a couple feet away from Noctis, then Gladio's louder guffaw would have drowned it out.

”I do believe they would say the same of our winters, nevermind those in the far north,” Ignis quips. When Noctis glances over, he's still smiling against the balcony doorway and the soft breeze pushing through it, glasses off and eyes closed. ”Oh, they'd freeze to death in Tenebrae or Nifflheim, of that I am certain.”

They all laugh a bit, Noctis dropping down to sit at the edge of the bed. The skin of his arms feels a bit sore even after an application of a thinned-out potion, though he knows that by morning, the subtle redness will have disappeared along with any lingering pain. Sighing, he leans back on his arms and turns his gaze from Ignis – now watching the city with the remnants of the earlier smile – to Gladio, who lounges on a chair with one of the new books open in his hand.

A silence falls between them, and something in the mood changes. The bees have been gone from Noctis' chest for hours now, but all of sudden their larvae make their presence known. Noctis feels ashamed, somehow, hot and bothered in all the wrong ways.

The others catch up on this, or maybe they don't. Either way, Ignis turns a fraction in his direction and asks, ”How did you like Prompto, Your Highness?” over his shoulder. From across the room, Gladio snorts loud enough to visibly startle Ignis. Noctis flinches and hunches down.

”I'm not interested in making friends with him,” he says before Gladio gets the chance to speak up, ”I wish dad'd just let the whole thing go.”

Even with his head hung down, Gladio's form still fits the corner of his eye.

”Yeah, well, you didn't have to be so fucking rude either,” he spits out. Noctis feels a flare of anger not unlike the now-familiar flashes of heat he's been suffering from ever since their arrival in Altissia, but it's short-lived and fleeting. Once it has escaped, all that remains is the shame from moments before, a hollowness in his chest not unlike his usual melancholy mood.

Thinking back to the way Gladio had defended Prompto from him brings with it a special kind of hurt, and Noctis almost calls him out on it before realizing – remembering – that the other had done nothing in need of being called out. He remembers how quickly Prompto's grin fell off his face, how bright a red his ears and face got when he was embarrassed or anxious, how he'd been blinking back tears over his extra-spicy hot dog because of Noctis' needling.

Shame continues to fill him.

”Did something happen?” Ignis inquires carefully. Noctis just catches him flapping a dismissive hand in Gladio's direction, an obvious order to shut the fuck up. He'd laugh if he didn't feel like crying.

”I told you and dad and Gladio that I didn't want to meet up with him!” The words spill out easy and fast, uncontrolled. Noctis wrings his fingers together and turns his face up to look Ignis in the eye. ”I told you all and–”

His voice breaks off; partly because of the expression on Ignis' face, partly because of his own realization that an excuse over his actions might not be what's wanted of him in this moment, and partly because he simply runs out of voice. Noctis expects Ignis to say something, but it's Gladio who speaks up next despite the previos warning to remain quiet.

”You could have at least pretended to have some manners, you know.” Gladio closes his book with a weary sigh and runs a hand over his face, the earlier heat gone from his voice. ”Like shit, that kid's _obviously_ got some sorta issues on his shoulders – so he lied a bit about not being allowed in a single place, what's the big deal? He's anxious as fuck, shit, maybe he was just afraid of being caught with someone who's publicly recognized as his caretaker's fucking _nemesis_.”

Noctis looks down at his lap and the fingers bunched in the fabric of his pants. Not far away, Ignis sighs.

”Noctis,” he says, voice so gentle and soft that Noctis can no longer hold back the tears burning at his eyes, ”for what it is worth, I am sorry for my part in forcing you into an outing you obviously had no interest in. I should have done better to listen to you over your father. I am sorry.”

He falls quiet. Noctis rubs at his eyes with the neckline of his t-shirt and hears rather than sees Ignis move a bit closer; not to sit down on the bed as he'd expected, but rather to the direction of the dresser next to it. When Noctis blinks his bleary, stinging eyes, he sees Ignis lean a hip against the dresser. The soft frown on Ignis' face makes him cry anew.

”That said – and I wish to make it clear that this is a separate issue from what I just apologized for,” Ignis continues, voice far too soft in its sterness, ”have you paused to consider the implications of Prompto simply, ah, showing up out of thin air so to say? We can assume he's of no biological relation to either Cor or Weskham, and were he, say, the child of a family friend or the like, I think he would have been introduced as such. Instead they made no reference to his origin or his past, which, to me, implies either something sordid or too personal to be shared with others right off the bat.”

Like Gladio previously, Ignis makes far too much sense; by the time he finishes, Noctis is sobbing hard enough to struggle to breathe. When he feels the bed dip and the warmth of Ignis' body settle down next to him, he almost pulls away, but the offer of comfort is too much to ignore and so he allows the other to pull him into a sideways hug, his head fitting under Ignis' chin just so.

”You didn't seem to mind him at the lunch,” Ignis murmurs, fingers squeezing at Noctis' arm.

”No,” Noctis manages to gasp out between his cries, ”but today I-I-I didn't want to b-be there, and Gladio was a-an asshole, and he lied and the weather was fucking awful and–”

He loses the steam as swiftly as he'd picked it up in the first place. Ignis says nothing but hums quietly, still holding onto Noctis while Noctis cries.

* * *

Even later that night, Noctis sits on the edge of his bed once more, this time ready for sleep, when his phone pings. It's a message from Gladio: a series of numbers and letters. The sequence at the start is enough to tell him exactly what it is he's looking at, but the rest leaves him confused. He responds with a series of question marks, expecting an explanation, but instead he receives a rap of knuckles against the door between his and Gladio's rooms.

”It's Prompto's King's Knight friend code.” Gladio's face is solemn, almost tired. Noctis can't bear to look at him. ”He's a level 53 mage specializing in long distance attacks and spells with large areas of effect. Though you might be interested.”

He leaves and Noctis continues to stare at the screen of his phone, occasionally tapping it with the side of his finger to keep the lights on. His own main character is fairly rounded out but can't do much in terms of long distance; Gladio plays a tank terrifyingly effective at pushing their way through waves and waves of enemy monsters but equally useless at mid or long distance.

Ignis, when he plays, is the mandatory healer. He only picked up the game because Noctis and Gladio kept on dying and would, most likely, prefer another type of character. Something wildly destructive, because the real Ignis can't burn down the entire world no matter how mad at it he gets. Something far more cool than he's ever able to be in real life.

Noctis, instead of thinking about how mages can acquire some healing spells, carefully taps out of the message and sets his phone on the nightstand. Not tonight. He wants to, kind of, and he probably should – if for no other reason then to apologize – but he can't. Not yet. Not tonight.


	6. Take a Chance and Shake a Fin

It's the time of the day when people can't decide between morning or not, and Cor sits at the back of the Maagho watching Prompto fumble with his phone. There's a wind in the air, gusts of it glancing off walls and narrow passes, that surges the water in the canal into waves lapping against stone and wood alike. The sky above them, though, is still clear and blue between the flower-covered beams supporting a clear rooftop.

Cor wants to relax; to sit back in his chair and enjoy to the steaming cup of coffee Prompto had placed before him moments before. He wants to sink his teeth into the strawberry pastry fresh out of the oven and lick the sticky icing from the roof of his mouth when he's done chewing the bite. He wants to feel the moment so perfectly set up, yet he can't.

He can't, and it has all and nothing to do with Prompto.

”What's going on on that phone of yours?” Cor asks gruffly, forcing himself to at least say something; Prompto looks up, flustered and twitchy, and thumbs the phone screen into blackness.

”It's just, you know,” he shrugs, looking anywhere but Cor. ”Stuff.”

Cor hums while reaching for his coffee. ”You don't actually have to answer me just because I asked, kid,” he says. The coffee tastes rich and full on his tongue but lacks the perfection only a particularly impactful moment could have impressed on it; Cor sighs and gulps down another mouthful. ”Just making conversation. Wondering what's got you looking all squirmy like that.”

A small grin tugs at the stronger side of his face when Prompto reddens and returns to fingering the phone.

”I was playing King's Knight,” he murmurs, almost whispers, ”with, you know, Prince Noctis.”

Cor hadn't known, and so the words take him by enough surprise to nearly expel the coffee currently in his mouth. Coughing a little, he waves a dismissive hand in Prompto's direction and forces the drink down while simultaneously coercing his lungs back into their regular pattern of in-out-in, careful to wait for a moment of actual calmness before turning to face the boy once more.

”I'm sorry,” he croaks, ”I thought – I thought the outing had gone really badly?”

Both Prompto and Gladio had told him as much, the first tittering about being an embarrassment and always ruining everything, the other frowning in frustration while explaining away Noctis' bad day and worse mood. Later on, Cor had been chatting with Regis over the phone when the other had sighed and wondered out loud if trying to introduce the two boys had been a mistake after all.

The sight of Prompto shrinking into himself under the weight of Cor's bewildered gaze is what snaps him out of his thoughts.

”Shit, sorry, kid,” he hurries to apologize. His fingers still don't work quite right but small as Prompto remains, his wrist is nevertheless thick enough for Cor take hold of without a hint of trouble. Rubbing a thumb against Prompto's skin is a bit trickier – the sideways movement something he hasn't practised as often as squeezing and letting go – but he manages. ”It's just that after what you told me, I didn't think you'd be interested in hearing from Noct again.”

Prompto shrugs but doesn't pull away from Cor's hold. A particularly strong gust of wind tousles his hair where it isn't still damp from his earlier swim and he has to reach to tuck the strands back behind his ear.

”He added me in King's Knight and then apologized,” he says softly. The beat of his pulse is wild and erratic where Cor's fingertips press into his skin. ”I didn't – I didn't really think he needed to, you know–”

”I do think he did, Prompto,” Cor cuts in, unwilling to let Prompto denigrate himself too much, ”but do go on.”

”Uh, oh, well – I didn't think it really that necessary, Cor, because it's not like – I _did_ lie to him, kinda, you know? I think that's a pretty legit thing to be mad about.”

Cor says nothing, like he says nothing about how Prompto isn't actually forbidden from approaching Sophie Pisano and her restaurants just because her and Weskham have a little something going on between them. The latter is a conversation they've had before, anyway, but over the startlingly short and equally long time they've spent together, it's become increasingly clear that anything Prompto can take as a mistake on his part, he will come to see as one – and, that regardless of the size or severity of the mistake, he will then continue to talk himself into believing he will be abandoned as a result. He will do nothing to upset or affront Cor or Weskham, even if this means giving up what even Cor agrees is clearly the most superior hot dog dish on the entire sun-baked island.

Sometimes it's worth it to argue him on the matter, but Cor can see this is not one of those days; Prompto is too happy to accept vulnerability. Working the anxiety out of him would only bring him to crash.

”Anyway, we've been playing together, and, um, Gladio joins us sometimes too, and I think that Ignis made a new character just now as well? So that's, um, going.” Prompto pauses long enough to finish off his fresh-squeezed orange juice. ”I think he's pretty okay, actually.”

Cor thinks for a moment. ”You don't actually have to entertain or spend time with him if you don't want to,” he says, careful, unsure if Prompto is interested in making new friends or if he simply feels he must entertain their royal guests, that he must do what he can to stay in Cor and Weskham's good grace.

They really don't expect that many things of him, nothing beyong basic manners and the like, but Prompto himself has expectations, or rather believes he has them placed on his self. Sometimes Cor hates the sight of Prompto's twisting fingers and trembling shoulders even more than he hates the mangled, scarred view of his own body that greets him on every reflective surface.

Sometimes is very often, these days.

”It's not like that,” Prompto mumbles into his empty glass, the phone resting and flickering on the table. Cor can't read any of the notifications popping up every now and then but knows there are only so many people Prompto has any sort of contact with, and that the summer holidays and Aranea's departure have cut the already meager amount into near-nothingness. ”He's pretty fun, and, well, it's just... working out, you know?”

Cor doesn't, not really. He exhales into the winds and watches a pale flower flutter down to the canal, where it bobs on the rippling waves before drifting out of his view.

”Well, as long as you're happy, guess that's all that matters,” he says, staring at the waters a moment longer before turning to Prompto with a brief flicker of a grin. ”Now, I _really_ don't mean to hurry you up, kid, but Reggie and Clarus will be here soon enough, and if you want to make a run for it, now's your time. Etro knows I won't hold it over your head if you do, heh.”

Face flushed red in horror and embarrassment, Prompto does as told. A small smile tugging at his lips, Cor watches him gather up the used plates and utensils on a tray he ferries away as he goes, footsteps deceptively light on the weatherworn floorboards.

The budding friendship, if Cor dare call it that, is not the reason he wanted to breakfast with Prompto; but the other things can wait just as well.

* * *

The port smells like salt and fresh fish under the cloying scent of flowers blooming all over the place, but so does the rest of the city. The things Noctis notices are sounds – the crash of waves on the stone pier, the low rumble of boat engines, the crank of pulleys trilling as ropes are pulled on, the shouts and laughs of people aboard the small navy of boats good for either leisure or fishing.

The sun is warm, but the breeze cool enough to be refreshing; the sky is cloudless, a blue canvas against the blue sea below it. Noctis spent a long minute or two staring at it the first time he boarded the vessel, and repeated the same action moments earlier, when he'd dropped his bag in the tiny cabin; now he stands on the pier once more, phone in his hands and heart in his throat.

”Well, all is set to go, your highness.”

Noctis glances up at Ignis and nods, mostly ignoring him in favor of thumbing his phone screen on and off. Prompto isn't quite late yet, has some ten minutes to go before the time they'd agreed to meet at, but he'd said he'll be coming straight from the temple which can mean work or distractions or a literal divine intervention – though, with someone who truly appears to worship the Astrals, isn't any intervention divine enough if studied closely enough? A slight tilt to his head, Noctis thinks for a moment before moving on with his fretting.

Ten minutes, maybe more, maybe not. A part of Noctis fears that Prompto won't even show up at all; it's the same part that still wonders over the ease at which the other accepted his apologies, the part that simply can _not_ understand how quickly things picked up after that. Six days have passed since the absolute failure of an outing, and though Noctis hasn't seen Prompto in person during the time, they've both kept their phones glued to their hands to make up for it.

Still – when Noctis looks up and sees Prompto squeezing past a Crownsguard, he feels a rock drop down into the pit of his belly. Nervous, he stuffs his phone away in a pocket and takes a step towards the other boy. Prompto is wearing the blue tunic again, a rope at his waist and a plastic purse slung over his chest; Noctis can see both his phone and his camera inside, along with a set of keys and a colorful sea shell.

”He-hey,” Prompto greets him, visibly uncomfortable around the handful of Crownsguards milling around the pier. ”I'm not late, am I?”

Despite everything, a grin finds its way to Noctis' face. ”Nah, dude,” he says, waving the other closer, ”not even close. C'mon, we're all ready to go, let's blow this popsickle stand!”

Just like that, Prompto is laughing. Noctis grasps him by the hand and pulls him into the boat, happy to see both Gladio and Ignis greet him with friendly words and smiles. The awkward edge remains in Prompto's cheer but by now, Noctis has already assumed it ever-present and unlikely to leave, and so pays it little attention. Instead, he shoos Prompto around the deck to show off this feature or that, then guides him into the galley for a quick look-around. The engines rumble to life and they scramble back to the deck, racing and almost shoving each other around in their haste to beat the other.

Noctis doesn't know where this new easiness comes from, and as much as it pleases him, it also scares him.

They have two weeks left.

* * *

Out on the sea, everything is different. It is not Noctis' first fishing trip during the vacation, and so it is hardly his first fishing trip _period_ , yet there's something in the air that makes it stand out from the rest. Gladio lounges on the deck, a book in hand and a glass of something fruity and horribly refreshining always at hand; Ignis alternates between joining him and locking himself in the galley kitchen with lunch preparations in mind. Occasionally, they come over to poke at the fish hanging off of Noctis' lure, or sitting in a bucket of ice, wry comments at ready; othertimes, they mumble their congratulations into the wind breezing past their heads.

With Prompto, everything is different. Prompto knows a bit about fishing, but nothing about the equipment Noctis uses; he's used to a simple line and a bare hook, one wrapped around a finger and the other dropped into the canal for the daily sacrificial fish.

”The Guide only does the fishing when it's something important,” Prompto explains cheerfully while examining the box of shining lures Noctis has spread out between them. The two of them are seated in the middle of the gently rocking deck, protected from the occasional spray of saltwater soaring into the air where a particularly strong wave has hit the boat at the right angle. ”With Ara–oh, um, the other novice gone, these days it's just sorry old me doing it every morning!”

For a moment, Noctis debates asking about this Ara-person, but ultimately decides against it. Instead, he hums low in the throat and tries to imagine Prompto standing next to a canal with a prehistoric fishing set.

”Can you really get fish with that sort of a thing?” he asks, dubious and equally curious. ”Like, won't the bare hook spook the fish...”

Prompto shakes his head with a wide grin. ”The fish bite really well in the city!” The explanation is cheerful, energetic. ”And, well, it doesn't have to be a big fish, or some particular species of fish, or anything fancy, really. All those tiny little fishes the lenght of forefinger will eat just about anything, haha. Hey!”

The sudden exclamation has Noctis looking up from the tackle box.

”If you want, you can come see me one these mornings!” Prompto blurts out, then, all of sudden, draws back with a grimace. ”I mean, it's not much of a sight, you know, but I just thought that you might be interested or something, I don't know...”

Noctis means to reply, but before he can, a long shadow falls over the both of them. Against the halo of the sun, Ignis' shape is nothing but a shadowy figure.

”There is no fish in the world that would not inspire interest in Noctis,” he says, and though Noctis can't see his face clearly enough to tell, he can hear the small smirk in Ignis' face. ”Unfortunately, it is the early hours that remain his defeat.”

In the further distance, Gladio snorts.

”Hey!” Noctis puts on his angriest glare and crosses his arm over his chest. Across from him, Prompto is tittering behind a hand. ”I so can get out of bed in the mornings if I have to!”

It's a bit of an exaggeration. More than a bit; Noctis knows this. The sound of Gladio's laughter tells him Gladio knows it, just as the sight of Ignis' widening smile tells him Ignis knows it too.

”You're never up in the mornings when I'm playing King's Knight,” Prompto mumbles. He looks like he's holding back laughter, the traitor. ”And, like, I mean... if King's Knight isn't enough to get you out of bed voluntarily, then _what_ is?”

Noctis tries to maintain his scowl. He tries to deepen it, tries to etch the sneer so deep in his skin it can never be rid of. Between Gladio, Ignis, and Prompto's twitching mouth, he cannot succeed.

”I hate you all,” he grumbles. Prompto dissolves into high-pitched giggles and Noctis feels his own cheeks hurt from the strain of refusing to join the others in laughing. He fails.

After that, it takes a moment for them all to quiet down. Noctis hears Ignis' soft, hum-like chuckles and breaks his facade a second after fixing it; Prompto looks at him, face pinched tight and a flaming shade of red, and snort-laughs loud enough to nearly choke on it.

”Ah, well, I'll just leave these here,” Ignis says eventually. He sets the tray of drinks on the floor next to the tackle box, then picks up two of them and carries the other over to Gladio. Noctis takes one of the remaining two, plucks out the decorative garnish on top, and guides the striped straw into his mouth.

The red slush is strawberry, maybe with some other fruit mixed in; the green leaves he discarded mirror a faint taste of mint. The drink bubbles with soda and chills his entire body with the ice chunks tossed into the glass, already perspiring and slippery in his hands. All that's missing is a paper umbrella.

Prompto is slower to take the drink, to taste it, but much faster to grin and twist around until he's facing Ignis where he's leaning on the rail near Gladio. ”It's so tasty!” he gushes. ”Amazing! Thank-you Ignis!”

Ignis, Noctis can see, is much more pleased than he's pretending to be.

”Thank _you_ , Prompto,” Ignis says, smiling behind his glass. ”I am glad to hear the refreshments are pleasing to you.”

Something warm spreads in Noctis' chest when Prompto gets up, first onto his knees and then onto feet wobbly after a long while of sitting down, and skips off to chatter excitedly in Ignis' face. It's the look of fondness Ignis wears that does it, Noctis decides; that, and how quickly the initial reluctancy or caution chipped away, in the end.

Ignis isn't easy to win over, but Prompto's managed that – like he's somehow managed to win over Noctis himself. It's weird, and still makes something squirm in the pit of his stomach, a discomfort he can mostly forget about but can't ease when it springs up. Noctis didn't come to Altissia to make a friend; he most certainly did not want to make a friend, though a nagging voice remniscient of his father's lowly chuckling tones chides him for lying whenever he thinks so. Still – Noctis did _not_ mean for any of this to happen, yet it did, and so he has no choice but to suffer the consequences.

That the consequences aren't there right now, in this very moment on the sun-bleached deck of a lovely little fishing boat, does not mean the suffering won't return in full force in the future, but–

”Hey, can we shift the course a bit?”

At the sound of Prompto's voice, Noctis looks up from the near-finished drink – now mostly melting water stained a light shade of red – and at his new friend. So do Ignis and Gladio, both openly curious yet a little stupefied, a little cautious. They always are, when plans change on the fly, when the faintest possibility of trouble shows up, and Noctis is tired of them acting like this and so he elects to ignore them.

”What do you mean, Prompto?” Ignis asks, just as Noctis gets up from the deck and says, ”Where do you wanna go, Prom?”

Prompto shakes his head. ”Ah, no, just steer a bit more in that direction, like a little curve.” He motions at the ocean ahead of them, nervous laughter beginning to spill into the brief pause. ”Like, tilt the boat a bit sideways and head that way juuust a little?”

As he speaks, he glances at the Crownsguard at the helm – the one he's mostly managed to ignore so far – and at Gladio, and a little at Ignis too. Noctis walks up to them with the most casual shrug he can muster and nods his permission at the Crownsguard, who still turns to Ignis and Gladio, waiting.

”Well, what harm could it be?” Gladio says, spreading his hands into a lazy semi-shrug that causes the pages of his book to flutter in the wind. In Noctis' eyes, he's nowhere near as casual as he looks and sounds, but he doesn't know if Prompto can see it as well.

The boat veers to the side, just a bit, and the going gets a bit choppier. The waves no longer crash against the bow, instead lapping at the side of the boat, causing the thing to rock sideways. Curiosity brims at the forefront of Noctis' mind and so he watches Prompto in wait of an explanation for the sudden, unexpected request. However, even when their gazes meet, when Noctis tilts his chin and raises an eyebrow, Prompto remains quiet – startlingly, shockingly quiet, still and soundless in a way he hadn't managed even on the day they got together to visit Sophie Pisano's restaurant.

Prompto's eyes are fixed on the sea. He stands straighter than before, a glass of red slush held in the cradle of his hands in front of his chest; something in the tilt of his chin, facing upwards for once, has Noctis following his gaze to the rocking waves.

He sees nothing. Then, all of sudden, Prompto speaks up, and when Noctis looks over, he sees the other grinning.

”Get ready, guys,” he says, but before Noctis can ask for what, he hears the ocean surge upwards.

At first, he doesn't understand the bubbles and water torrents disturbing the surface of the sea. Heart in his throat, he dashes over to the railing, clamps his sweating palms on the warm metal just in time to see a growing shadow under the worst turbulence. Then, as soon as the fear set in, it gives way to a nervous excitement.

A tail wider than the boat is long splashes out of the water, disappears into a sideways roll. ”A whale!” Noctis gasps, eyes fixed where the massive animal slides deeper underwater. ”Oh, come on up, come on up, _please come on up_ –”

His phone is on his hands before he realizes it, and for once in his life, the Astrals answer his prayers. After a moment of diving, the whale changes directions, this time breaching the sea with the full lenght of its dark, mottled body. Saltwater sprays and splatters everywhere, some of it reaching the boat when a gust of wind grabs the droplets mid-fall. The whale falls back into the water in an arc almost graceful against the size of its body, and Noctis, breathless with nerves and excitement and the thrill of living, seeks out Prompto with his gaze.

Unlike the rest of them, Prompto hasn't moved to the railing; instead, he stands some feet back, the drink still in his hands, his chin still a fraction in the air. There is a smile on his face, but it's nothing like the grins and nervous wobbles he's worn before. Frozen still and panting to calm his wildly beating heart, Noctis stares him in the eye.

He doesn't know what the expression means, but it's one he has only ever seen Luna wear before.


End file.
